


Twenty Pieces of Silver

by LaughtersMelody



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Memory Alteration, Minor Character Death, Romance, Slow Burn, The Red Room
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 90,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9246890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughtersMelody/pseuds/LaughtersMelody
Summary: When the Red Room is in the market for new recruits, a sixteen-year-old circus star, "The Amazing Hawkeye, The World's Greatest Marksman," is brought to their attention. Clint Barton's future is changed forever...as is Natasha Romanoff's. AU. Eventual Clint/Natasha. Mostly Natasha POV.





	1. It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> I have been posting this fic on FF.N for the last few years under the name Ani-maniac494, and I finally decided to post it here on AO3 as well. :) A quick warning - I've learned the hard way not to post stories that aren't already complete, but this story is a rare exception to that. It began as a one-shot, and I meant for it to stay that way. But, I had quite a few requests to continue, and wound up inspired with a much larger story that has kept growing since then. It's finally nearing the end, but it's not there yet, and since this story is in the habit of winding up longer than I expected, I can't say for sure when it will be finished. It's currently 24 chapters, and I'm planning to post chapters on AO3 every few days or so until I catch up to where I am currently on FF.N. Once I get to that point, updates will be a lot slower.
> 
> I borrow a couple comic characters for this first chapter - Barney, Clint's older brother, and Trickshot, his mentor - though I have never read the comics themselves. I'm basing the characters on the few small details I know, but if anything is different, this is already an AU, so it shouldn't be a problem. :) The rest is all from my imagination.
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

  
  


**Twenty Pieces of Silver **

_1987_

The tent was dark.

The only actual light filtered through gaps where the flaps didn't quite meet, and it flickered as the tarps waved back and forth with the breeze. It was quiet too, except for the rustling of the canvas, and the muffled sounds of the nearby crowd.

Barney scowled.

The show had ended fifteen minutes ago, but the carnival surrounding the big top was usually enough to keep the venders in business for a few more hours, and anyone who wasn't helping with that was busy with the post-show clean-up. That meant they wouldn't have to worry about interference for a while yet.

Still, Clint better turn up soon.

Barney had promised that he could handle his little brother, and he didn't want to look like an idiot who couldn't get a sixteen-year-old to cooperate. Besides, he wasn't sure if he would get a second chance to make good on his end of the bargain. Russians were known to be hardnosed, and when he'd arranged the meet, his Bratva contact had warned him that these guys were serious players.

He'd questioned that when he'd first seen the guy he was supposed to be dealing with. The slim, gray-haired man with a charcoal business suit and glasses hardly seemed like someone the Russian Mafia would be wary of. But none of that mattered to Barney as long as the guy was interested, and he was. He'd come to watch the show three nights in a row. He must have been satisfied by what he'd seen because he'd called Barney to make an offer right after that.

Hashing out the contract had been the easy part. Figuring out how to pull it off had been a little more difficult, but in the end, Barney had gone with the direct approach:

" _Meet me in the supply tent right after the show."_

_Clint frowned. "Why?"_

" _I'll explain later. Just do it."_

Clint had agreed, saying he'd head straight there as soon as Trickshot cut him loose. Kid had an annoying habit of screwing up whatever good thing Barney had going, but that, at least, was a gonna change after this.

If he actually showed his face.

Barney's scowl deepened at the thought, and he shifted his position on the crate he was leaning against. He regretted it a moment later when the Russian standing next to him - he never had given his name, and Barney had known better than to ask - turned to look at him, glasses glinting faintly in the dim light.

"You seem restless, Mr. Barton. Should I be concerned?"

Barney muttered a curse in his head but kept his voice purposefully even. "No. Trickshot probably just has Clint resetting targets for tomorrow. But, he'll be here. And anyway, you've seen what he can do. It's worth the wait."

The other man was apparently satisfied with that and silence fell once more.

Long minutes passed, and Barney resisted the urge to shift again, not wanting to field another question about his "restlessness." He concentrated instead on the dark shapes he could just make out across from him. Dressed head-to-toe black, the three men were almost invisible and they were all crouched down low. He wondered who they were - military, maybe. Mercs. Russian, too, from what he could tell. Either way, they'd been there when he and the suit had worked out the final details for tonight, and they'd taken up their positions in the tent without a word.

They hadn't moved since.

The suit himself hadn't moved either, though once or twice, he'd pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to polish the lenses of his glasses, then he'd carefully refolded the handkerchief and replaced the glasses on his nose. Just what that was supposed to accomplish in the dark, Barney wasn't sure, but whatever. If the man had the cash to make this whole thing worth the while, he could pass the time tap dancing for all Barney cared.

A stronger breeze hit the tent, making the tarp snap loudly, pulling at the stakes anchoring it, and few happy shouts from the carnival carried with the wind. The sound was an unwelcome reminder that they didn't have forever to get this done, and Barney immediately started debating the best way to make his little brother pay if this went south.

But, just when it was looking like he'd have to hunt the kid down, footsteps could be heard on the gravel outside and Barney could make out Clint's silhouette through the canvas.

Clint's shadow hesitated. "Barney, you around?"

"Yeah," he called. "I'm here."

Clint obviously knew that something was up - he was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. Still, Barney had been careful never to give the kid a reason not to trust him, and a moment later, the tent flat was pushed back and Clint stepped inside.

"Barney?"

He heard Clint reach for the tent's makeshift light rig. The moment the space lit up the mercs were on him.

The man closest to the entrance tried for a tackle, aiming to bring Clint to the ground, but the kid was quick on his feet, and he managed to dodge. The next man who rushed Clint got a wild punch thrown at him, and he actually staggered back from Clint's blow. Apparently, "The Amazing Hawkeye" had worked up some pretty good muscle with that bow of his.

If things were different, Barney might have been proud.

Clint was drawing back his fist again when his gaze met Barney's, and well, the kid's eyes had always been too sharp for his own good. Barney stared back evenly, his arms folded over his chest, letting that, the lack of reaction, speak for him.

Different emotions swam through Clint's gaze so fast that Barney couldn't name them, though they settled pretty quickly on betrayal. Still, it wasn't quick _enough_ because it was all the soldiers needed to get the upper-hand.

Two of them lunged and grabbed Clint's arms, pulling them roughly behind his back. He thrashed in their grip, letting loose a string of curses, kicking out with his legs, hitting the third man; Clint got a backhand to the face in return. He was dazed long enough from the hit that they managed to get a gag on him, though he started struggling again as soon as he realized what they were doing.

The suit next to Barney snapped a quick, irritated command in Russian and produced a syringe. He tossed it to the merc whose hands were still free, and he wasted no time in using it. He grabbed a fist-full of Clint's hair, forced his head back, and jabbed the needle into his exposed neck.

Clint grunted in pain, growling something unintelligible through the gag as the man pushed the plunger down. Whatever was in that thing must have been strong though, because Clint's eyelids started fluttering almost immediately, his struggles turning sluggish and uncoordinated until they stopped altogether.

His bleary eyes found Barney one last time before they finally slipped shut, his head lolling as he slumped over bonelessly in the soldiers' grip.

Barney glanced over at the man in the suit, frowning. "What was that stuff?"

"Merely a sedative. He'll be unconscious for several hours." The man paused, studying Barney critically. "You're not having second thoughts, are you, Mr. Barton? I was hoping it would not be necessary to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement."

Barney shrugged. "I'm just protecting my interests. The deal was that he leaves here in one piece. I don't care what you do with him afterwards, but there's no sense giving him to you if you're just gonna kill him. If you're willing to pay for his skills, someone else could be too. I don't wanna get short-changed."

The Russian man's lips quirked. "I suppose I can appreciate your…how do you Americans say it? Business savvy?"

Barney didn't answer, just watched as the soldiers got to work, binding Clint's wrists and ankles. Kid must have made an impression, because even sedated, his hands were tied behind his back and they didn't skimp on the rope.

"So," Barney said at last, turning to the Russian in the suit once more, "as promised, 'The Amazing Hawkeye, World's Greatest Marksman,' is yours. You gonna hold up your end?"

The man nodded succinctly. "The equivalent of $35,000 U.S. dollars will be transferred to your account immediately. I must say that our meeting was most fortunate, Mr. Barton. Your brother shows incredible potential. I have no doubt he will be of great use to my organization."

"Uh-huh," Barney agreed absently, his mind already on how to divide up the money he was getting. He had plans - a lot of plans, none of which included the stupid freak show he and his brother called "home." He frowned again and waved a hand at his brother. "You gonna need my help to get the kid out of here? Can't really see you walkin' out the front door with Mr. Circus Star trussed up."

"No, thank you, Mr. Barton. We have our own methods, and we'll be gone long before anyone grows curious. That is, if your timetable is accurate."

Barney didn't miss the challenge in the words. "It's accurate," he assured. "Like I said, right now, everybody's got their hands full with the clean-up and that crowd out there. You've got at least a couple hours before that changes."

"Excellent. Then we certainly don't require your assistance."

Barney nodded and looked down at his brother again. Clint was still wearing his costume from the show - black pants with a black and purple vest, covered front-to-back with sequins. He always looked ridiculous dressed that way, but the crowds seemed to like it. The crowds had always liked Clint. A gold mine, Trickshot had called him.

Well, Barney thought, that much had turned out to be true. Word on the street had been that some Russians were looking for anybody skilled with weaponry, and after all, a bow was a weapon, though the kid hadn't used it as one yet. But that aim of his was enough to make him deadly.

Speaking of…

"You said that I won't have to worry about him, right? A few years from now, he's not gonna come after me with a score to settle?"

The Russian smiled coolly. "I assure you, Mr. Barton, that won't be a problem."

"Good."

Barney spared his brother one last glance before he headed for front of the tent, pushed the flaps out of his way, and kept walking.

He didn't look back.

He debated about heading to his trailer to start packing, but he turned towards the carnival instead. It was probably better if he kept up appearances, at least for tonight. He'd never liked working the crowds, but he was less likely to get questions about Clint there, since the kid usually spent most of his time in the big top after a show. Trickshot encouraged that, figuring the audience would be more in awe of "The Amazing Hawkeye" if they didn't see him counting ticket receipts or handing out popcorn.

Barney got the majority of the grunt work…had gotten it ever since the circus figured out they had a "prodigy" on their hands.

The $35,000 Barney had coming would make up for a lot of that, even if he wished the number were higher. He'd certainly been tempted to hold out for more. After all, Clint's skills were valuable, not something you could get just anywhere. But, Barney knew he was really just due a finder's fee and hadn't wanted to push his luck.

Still, $35,000 was a whole lot more than he'd had before, and that included what he'd have to spend to get out of town. He'd need to hide his trail too, just in case. If anyone bothered to ask, the Barton brothers had taken off for greener pastures, and that was all there was to it. It wasn't really a stretch. Clint _had_ gotten offers from a few of the bigger traveling shows, though the kid had turned them all down out of some idiotic sense of loyalty.

'Course, even if the cover story fell through, chances were still good that no one would come looking. The circus world was a small one, with quite a few people who lived just this side of legal. None of the carnies would risk bringing the authorities down on their heads, even to track down their precious rising star.

Barney reached the outskirts of the carnival and stopped, watching the crowds for a minute, trying to decide where to go. Anna usually needed some help with her fortune telling gimmick, but she liked to fuss over him and Clint, and Barney didn't want the old lady getting curious. Marcus was probably his best bet - guy never said more than two words about anything, and his booth was usually busy, so no one would think twice about Barney lending a hand.

Barney started in that direction, but a sharp pin-prick of pain erupted at the base of his spine, and he grunted, stumbling in surprise.

"What the-?"

The words caught as his throat seized suddenly.

He blinked rapidly and tried to take another breath, but it was like sucking air through a straw, and he coughed, his shoulders hunching. That only seemed to make it worse, and Barney doubled over, gasping.

A deep ache flared in his chest, a strange feeling of warmth following it, and the world spun abruptly.

Realization settled in about the same time that the muscles in his throat spasmed.

Barney knew, he _knew_ , what this had to be, but the rage was short-lived because he couldn't get enough oxygen, and his focus was quickly narrowing to that and only that. His chest was tight, like it was being squeezed by a vise, the pressure building fast enough that his vision started to blur around the edges. This time, when he stumbled, his hands and knees hit the dirt.

The stinging in his back throbbed, and he struggled to raise his head to see if anyone had noticed what was happening, but no one was looking in his direction, and any noise he'd made was lost in the happy din of the carnival.

His muscles shaking, his gaze darted around, searching for something, anything, _anyone_.

That was when he finally saw her.

She was small and skinny, with fiery red hair that fell around her shoulders in loose waves. She couldn't have been older than twelve, and she was just standing in the shadows, watching him.

Barney tried to draw in enough breath to tell her to go get help, but black spots swam in front of his eyes. His arms gave out and he landed on his side, chest heaving uselessly.

The girl waited another minute before she walked forward silently, her stride oddly purposeful. Barney could only watch hazily as she reached behind him to pluck something from his back, and a small, metallic needle shown briefly in the light before it disappeared up her sleeve.

She stared down at him for a moment longer with cold green eyes, then turned and disappeared into the carnival beyond.

Barney's heart stuttered once, twice, and then stopped.

After that, there was nothing but darkness.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic came to me originally as a very vivid scene that I just couldn't resist writing. The title is inspired by the biblical story of Joseph, whose brothers sold him into slavery for the equivalent of twenty pieces of silver. Judas betrayed Jesus for the price of a slave as well, though by New Testament times, inflation had pushed the price to thirty pieces of silver.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying this, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> -Laughter


	2. First Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest thanks to my dear friend, CrazyAni, for her help with the Russian translation and terms. :)
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

The smell of cotton candy and popcorn tickled the girl's nose as she made her way through the crowd. She smiled and added a slight bounce to her step as she took in the sights, knowing that anyone watching her would expect it.

But it wasn't entirely an act.

She had never seen a circus in person…at least, not that she remembered, and though her mission hadn't included the show itself, the carnival was enough to satisfy her curiosity. Brightly colored tents and booths formed a thoroughfare of reds, yellows, blues, greens, purples, and oranges, all shining in the glow of countless lights. The notes of a calliope filled the air, mingling with laughter and conversation and the lower hum of electric generators.

It was so different…not at all like the compound in Russia which was quiet and solemn, the surrounding tundra rugged and barren, a mix of browns, whites, and grays.

A contortionist on a nearby platform caught her eye, and she stopped to watch. The woman lay down on her stomach, then arched her back so that her legs eventually came to rest far over her shoulders, her feet flat on the floor in front of her; the crowd surrounding the small stage murmured in amazement, and the girl could not help but stare with them. Her trainers demanded flexibility, but did not expect _that_ , and she was glad, because she was not certain she could do it even if they ordered her to.

"Excuse me, dear," a voice said.

The girl turned to see a woman standing behind her, clearly hoping to walk by, and the girl ducked her head in apology, assessing the woman quickly. She was elderly, dressed in a long black robe that was decorated with an intricate floral pattern, and her face was framed by curly brown hair that was obviously dyed. She wore a hat that matched her robes, a silk rose adorning one side. Several strings of beads hung around her neck, complimented by long earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders.

She looked like one of the Roma.

But, whether that was a reflection of the woman's heritage, or simply the costume she chose to wear, it was impossible to tell. Hopefully, it would not become mission-relevant.

"Sorry," the girl offered aloud, conscious of the way her lips and tongue formed the consonants. _General American, spoken in the Western and Midwestern regions of the United States. Less distinctive than the dialects common in the South and North-East._ "I didn't realize I was in anyone's way."

She stepped aside to let the woman pass.

The woman smiled. "Not a problem, dear. What's your name?"

"Natalie Rushman," she answered, giving the name she'd been told to if she were questioned.

"Well, Natalie, I'm Anna. Are you enjoying yourself?"

She nodded and looked down again, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear in feigned shyness.

"Glad to hear it." The woman smiled again, studying her. "You know, dear, I'm good at reading people - it's a gift you could say. And there's something special about you…I have a feeling you'll do something great one day. Come to my booth later if you want to hear more." The old woman winked and started off again, beads rattling softly as she moved.

The girl waited until she was certain that the woman wouldn't return, then continued forward, careful this time not to become distracted.

She reached the outskirts of the carnival a few minutes later. The parking lot was little more than the remains of the open field the circus had laid claim to, and it was dark, beyond the reach of the lights from the carnival behind her.

She walked past several cars until she reached a large, windowless gray van that was parked in a distant corner. She strode to the back of the vehicle, knocked three times, then paused and knocked again, and the door slid open to admit her.

She stepped inside, the van dipping faintly as she did so. She wasn't surprised to see the Polkovnik waiting for her, sitting on the bench facing the door; his glasses were in one hand, his handkerchief in the other as he polished the lenses.

"Это сделано?" _Is it done?_

"Да." _Yes._

"Отлично. Пойдемте отсюда прежде чем его тело найдут." _Excellent. Then let us leave before the body is found._

The girl simply nodded and her way past the unconscious figure on the floor, taking her seat on the bench that ran along the side of the vehicle. One of the guards slid the door closed behind her, blocking the circus from view, and the engine came to life a moment later, gravel pinging against the bottom of the van as they started for the road.

As a few, quiet minutes passed, the girl let her eyes wander around the interior.

Two of the guards were seated in the back, one beside her, and the other next to the Polkovnik. They occupied themselves with cleaning the closest weapon at hand, occasionally exchanging a few words with the driver. She knew that their presence was due at least in part to hers - she was trusted, but that trust extended only so far. Still, the guards paid little attention to her now…perhaps following the Polkovnik's example. He had put away his handkerchief and replaced his glasses, and now he held a pad of paper and a pen which he used to write his notes. But, every few minutes, he would pause in his work to glance thoughtfully at the floor of the van, where his latest acquisition lay.

Curious, she followed his gaze.

The boy rested a few feet away, on his side, facing her. He was perhaps a few years older than she was, and he was dressed oddly, in black pants and a black and purple vest, decorated with sequins; from this angle, she could see that the sequins on his back were sewn into the shape of some type of bird, its wings stretching over his shoulders. He had short, unruly dark-blond hair, and a lean but muscular frame, one that promised it would only improve with age. Procedure dictated that he be sedated, and that had clearly been done, but ropes still bound his wrists and ankles, and a gag still covered his mouth.

She frowned imperceptibly.

News of him had come through the Bratva…apparently, they had a local contact who had first-hand knowledge of the boy's skill. She did not like the Bratva - they were rowdy and undisciplined, but the Polkovnik seemed to find them useful enough, and he'd agreed to meet the American who'd answered their "advertisement." She had not been allowed to attend that meeting, but the Polkovnik had seemed intrigued when he'd returned, and his interest had only grown when he'd gone to observe the boy himself.

She wondered just what the Polkovnik saw in him…what he'd seen in her, once.

After all, she had not always belonged to the program, though what she recalled of her life outside of it was hazy, jumbled, and brief. A woman's voice, a scream, and smoke. She did not know what it all meant…still, somehow she knew that those were memories from _before_.

She guarded those memories, fragmented as they were, relegating them to a distant corner of her mind, and examining them only on those rare occasions when she was free from scrutiny. Had her life been anything like this boy's? She wished, suddenly, that he were awake, so she could speak to him…but she clamped down on that desire as quickly as it came. Thoughts like those were dangerous, and she had allowed her mind to wander too freely already. Her superiors would not have been pleased, had they been aware of it.

She looked away from the boy deliberately, choosing to focus on the wall across from her instead, studying the pattern of the shadows that the metal grating cast in the limited light. Her body swayed slightly with the movement of the van as the driver slowed and turned. It was only the first of many turns in a long, winding route that would eventually lead them to the private airfield the Polkovnik had rented, and the plane that would carry them back to Russian soil.

A little over a half an hour had passed when a soft groan caught her attention, barely audible over the sound of the engine, and she tensed. No one else seemed to have heard it - the Polkovnik was once again absorbed in his notes, and the guards were laughing quietly, sharing a joke she did not understand and could not appreciate.

The sound came again, louder by the barest margin, and she was certain this time that it was the boy. She opened her mouth to alert the guards, but before she could, the boy's eyes opened.

She couldn't explain why, but the warning died on her tongue, and she found herself staring instead.

His eyes were a striking blue-gray, with small flecks of teal, green, and gold. For a long moment, he gazed up at the van's ceiling, unseeing, and then his eyes slipped closed once more. She waited, but his eyes did not open again, and his breathing continued its slow rhythm under the sedative's influence.

It was harder, this time, to turn her gaze away, but she did so nonetheless. As interested as she was in the boy, it was not her place to ask questions. She existed only to further the goals of the Red Room, and soon, this boy would do the same.

In the end, that was all she needed to know.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on the Russian terms used:
> 
> Roma - A subgroup of the Romani people found in Russia, also known as the gypsies.
> 
> Polkovnik - The equivalent of "Colonel." Can also be used to mean "Administrator."
> 
> Bratva - The Russian Mafia.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying this, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> -Laughter


	3. Cellmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my very sincere thanks to my dear friend, CrazyAni, for her help with the Russian translations. :)
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 3 **

The blow landed on her side with a crack, one she felt as well as heard.

The girl automatically stifled the cry that rose in her throat and rolled away, avoiding her opponent's next strike. She came up in a crouch, eyes narrowed, ignoring the fierce ache that flared with every breath.

_Conquer pain or it will conquer you._

Her opponent circled around her, fists raised, her movements calm, predatory. She was one of the older female trainees, pale, with brown hair that fell to her mid-back. She towered over the girl by several inches, and she knew how to use her height to its best advantage.

But the girl was faster.

She lunged forward suddenly, sweeping her opponent's legs out from under her with a practiced motion. The older trainee grunted as she hit the mat, and the girl leapt on top of her, pinning her there. She raised her elbow to strike at the other girl's throat, expecting their trainer to call the match before the potentially fatal hit could be delivered.

But the order to stop didn't come.

Her arm wavered.

"Достаточно." _Enough._

The girl stood obediently and turned to face the trainer, her gaze fixed on a point over his shoulder, her expression carefully blank.

She could sense his displeasure before he spoke.

"Вы выиграли матч, но не нанесли смертельный удар. Объясните." _You won the match, but did not make the killing blow. Explain._

"Я не знал, что у меня было разрешение на использование силы со смертельным исходом." _I was not aware that I had permission to use lethal force._

The trainer studied her for a long moment, as though weighing her answer. "На войне ваши противники будут не столь деликатны. Дрогнете и умрёте." _In the field, your opponents will not be so considerate. Hesitate and die._

It was both a critique and a warning, one the girl heard clearly. "Понял." _Understood._

There was a pause as the trainer gave her one last assessing glance and then offered a quick wave of his hand. "Вы уволены." _You are dismissed._

He did not add that she was authorized to visit medical, but the girl was not surprised by the omission. If anything, it was a lesser form of punishment than she had expected for her failure. As she started for the door, she heard the trainer berating her opponent for her own poor performance during the match - in all likelihood, the older girl would not receive the same leniency she had.

The trainer's voice grew distant as the girl started down the gray corridor. It was late in the evening, and the few windows she passed were filled only with the night sky, though the base itself was awash with artificial light. The final meal of the day had been provided a few hours before, so the hallways were empty, the rest of the staff and the other trainees finishing the day's activities elsewhere.

She came to the end of the corridor and turned to the right, headed for the communal showers, the familiar echo of the guard's footsteps following behind her. But, she was trusted enough that when she arrived at the stalls, they waited outside in the hallway, willing to allow her the luxury of privacy.

She undressed quickly, eager to ease the ache in her side with cool water.

It wasn't nearly as effective as ice would have been, but by the time her allotted ten minutes were up, it had at least numbed the pain slightly. She paused to examine the injury, running her fingers over the already vivid bruise. In all probability, she had at least one cracked rib, but she had received enough medical training to know that at this point, it was simply painful, not dangerous. She would not have to worry about complications, even if she never received treatment from the base's doctors.

She combed through her hair, braided it, and changed into a fresh uniform, easing the gray shirt over her head just as the guards opened the door. She stepped out into the hall, careful to keep any surprise from her features when they assumed positions in front of her, and instead of taking her to the barracks, led her in the opposite direction, to the cells.

Unease crept up her spine, but she forced the feeling away. If she had been due further punishment, the trainer would have informed her of that fact, so most likely, this was something else…perhaps preparation for a new mission. Trainees were sometimes separated from the rest of the population before they were sent out, and she hadn't left the base since returning from America two weeks earlier.

The guards stopped in front of a cell near the end of the corridor, and opened the door, motioning for her to enter. She did so, and the guards closed the door behind her, the hinges screeching loudly.

The sound of their footsteps followed soon after, quieting as they drew further away, until at last, the only noise the girl heard was the sound of her own breathing. Her eyes swept the cell automatically. Like most of the base, the floor was concrete, but the walls were the same thick metal as the door. It was windowless, with only a small opening in the door offering a narrow view of the hallway outside. Vents, several inches high, marked each side of the room, running the length of the walls and circulating the air.

The cell itself was bare, aside from a simple bunk which faced the door, a plain brown blanket covering it. She was tempted to pull the blanket from the bed and cover herself in it - the cell was not terribly warm, and she was still chilled from the shower she had taken. But, even though she saw no cameras, it was still possible that they were watching her somehow, and she knew better than to show any weakness.

She walked steadily across the room and sat down on the bunk, drawing her knees up to her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around them. And so she waited, intending not to lay down until the official call for lights out.

She was startled when she heard noise in corridor - shouting.

She frowned faintly as the noise grew louder, the words becoming more distinct. Whoever was shouting was speaking English, and they were cursing - colorful curses she had yet to learn officially, though one of the guards had thought it amusing to "tutor" her.

A shoe squeaked on the concrete floor, and a string of Russian curses ensued, followed by the familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh. A pained grunt echoed loudly and the yelling quieted, but the rest of noise did not. She did not rise from her bunk, but saw several guards pass in front of her cell, dragging something…someone.

He was still struggling - she could hear by his voice that he was male - but the guards managed to push him into the cell beside hers. They closed the door quickly, the metal reverberating with a clang.

It wasn't until the guards had left again that she heard a soft groan, and the sound of a body scraping slowly along the concrete floor, finally coming to settle on what was, most likely, a bunk like her own.

A few minutes passed in silence, until the lights of the base flickered once, twice, and then cut out, the signal for sleep.

The girl uncurled her legs and started to stand so that she could slip beneath the blanket on her bed, but she had been still for too long and her side had stiffened. Pain flared with her movement, and she grunted lowly, the noise escaping before she could stop it.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

The girl froze.

"Hello?"

The girl did not answer. Unauthorized interaction between members of the program was strictly prohibited and she would not bring wrath down upon her head, even if the boy in the cell beside her was foolish enough to risk it.

She ignored him and set to work on her bunk. Unfortunately, her side protested again, and her sharply indrawn breath was apparently loud enough for him to hear.

"Hey, are you hurt? You…you seem like you could be."

Her eyes narrowed. Was this a test? It wasn't out of the question, though it had been some time since her trainers had felt in necessary to gauge her reactions and adherence to protocol. Perhaps her failure during the sparring match had made them suspicious.

If that was the case, she would prove her worth. Her loyalty. She would report this boy in the morning.

"Look," he began a little louder, loud enough that someone else was likely to hear, "I know you're there, and I just-"

"Quiet!" she hissed automatically in English…then immediately cursed her lapse. She waited for the guards to appear, to escort her to the Polkovnik for a reprimand, and perhaps worse, but the hallway outside remained empty.

And the boy…the boy continued to talk.

"You speak English." His voice, now a great deal softer, was a mix of relief and surprise. "I wasn't sure anybody here did. All I've heard is Russian. At last, I'm pretty sure it's Russian."

The majority of trainees and staff knew English - it was important, the Polkovnik said, to be familiar with the ways of the enemy. But, if he had ordered that this boy not be spoken to in the language, then she had violated that command as well. She closed her eyes in resignation - so many failures in one day. She would surely be punished now.

"Are you American?" the boy questioned, a note of hope in his voice. "You sound American."

She opened her eyes to glare at the wall of her cell, the one that adjoined his, already blaming him for what she would have to endure.

"It is easy to sound American," she boasted, allowing her natural Russian accent to color the words.

She took a sort of vindictive pleasure in the disappointed silence that followed.

It lasted long enough that she wondered if she had quieted him for good and started to work at her bunk once again.

She paused when an odd noise caught her attention; there was a grunt, not pained this time, but full of effort, and she automatically sought the source of the sound. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw it.

The boy had jumped up to grip the small ledge of the vent in his cell, and pulled himself up so that he could peer at her through it. The cells were lit only dimly now, in allowance for the night, but she could make out his silhouette, and his eyes…familiar eyes she knew to be blue-gray, with small flecks of teal, green, and gold.

It was the boy. The one the Polkovnik had taken an interest in, just two weeks before.

The position must have been difficult to hold, because he dropped back to the floor a moment later.

"Look," he began again, "I get that you probably don't want to talk to me, that you don't want to get in trouble or whatever, but you're the first person I've had anything resembling a conversation with, and I just… No one will tell me anything. I don't know what they want from me. I'm nobody. I'm from Iowa. I'm a carnie, that's it. It's not like they can ransom me or something." His voice took on an odd note. "There's nobody who'd pay anything to get me back."

She did not answer immediately, considering her options. The American mission was still vivid in her mind, though she knew it would not always be. In a way, she was surprised that she had been allowed to keep the memories this long. Nonetheless, she still recalled how much she had wished to speak with this boy. She had the chance now, and at this point, if she were punished for it, it was unlikely that answering his questions would make much difference.

"You are…a carnie?" she repeated at last, tasting the unfamiliar word on her tongue, guessing its meaning. "You worked at a circus?"

"Yeah, I do."

He seemed determined to ignore the past-tense, and she did not try to correct him. He would learn.

"What did you do with the circus?"

"Archery. I do trick shots with my bow."

"You are good?"

"Yeah. I am." There was no hint of ego in the answer, just simple confidence, and that, more than the words themselves, told her that he was speaking the truth.

"Then, that is why they want you."

In all honesty, she was not certain why the Polkovnik would be so impressed by someone skilled with an archaic weapon. Other weapons were far more efficient. But, if he were so effective with a bow, perhaps the Polkovnik felt he would be equally skilled in other areas.

There was a pause before the boy spoke again. "So they…they want to keep me here."

"Yes."

"How long?"

This time she did not respond, and that, it seemed, was enough.

"Oh," he said a moment later, his voice subdued. "Right."

There was a longer silence, and the girl shook herself, realizing that she had spent several minutes standing over her bed, one corner of the blanket held uselessly in her hand. She pulled it back, but did not lie down, sitting once again instead.

She heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of the boy sitting back down on his own bunk.

"What's your name?" he wondered.

The question caught her off-guard. She had never been asked that, not here, where she had never been given a name to offer.

Iris Montgomery. Cecilia Fasjovik. Natalie Rushman.

They were the few names she could recall from the missions she had carried out - missions when her mind had been her own. But there was one other name she knew.

Natalia Alinova Romanova.

She had seen it in her medical file once, when the staff hadn't known she was conscious. She repeated it to herself sometimes, but it never quite seemed to fit - like a coat that was too big, or too small…or perhaps it was a coat tailored for another girl altogether. But, it was hers, not something that been given to her by the Red Room, and for that reason alone, she hid the knowledge away, like she did those brief glimpses of her past.

She would not utter that name inside these walls.

The boy, oddly enough, seemed to understand. "If you don't want to tell me, that's okay. How 'bout I call you Natasha? We had some Russian acrobats once, and one of 'em was named Natasha. That's a good name, right?"

She did not respond, but he apparently took that as assent.

"Natasha it is. I'm Clint." He scoffed softly. "Wish I could say it's nice to meet you, but-" she heard him kick the wall of his cell, the sound echoing.

She tensed, but as before, the guards did not appear. Perhaps they were safe after all…perhaps, somehow, their conversation had gone unnoticed.

"I'm gonna get out of here, you know," the boy - Clint - declared suddenly. "I'm gonna get out of here somehow and go back home. The circus…they want me there. At least I think they do, even if my brot-" She heard him swallow. "I don't think they knew. I don't think they knew what he was planning."

She wasn't sure what he meant, but no response seemed to be required of her, so she didn't offer one.

"Maybe you can come with me. You'd like it - they're good people. They took me an' my brot-" he faltered again. "They took me in. Anna, especially. She's always looked after me. She's psychic. At least, that's what she says. She tells fortunes. But, you know, she plays the Lotto every week and she never wins."

He seemed to be talking mostly for himself now, but she let him.

"And Jack, he's a magician. He taught me how to pick locks and hustle poker. He was gonna teach me to pick pockets, but Anna wouldn't let him…said it was a sure-fire way to get me sent to juvie. Rick and his wife Janie, they do the high wire act…"

His voice washed over her as she finally lay down on her bunk, pulling the blanket up, and closing her eyes against the pain from her ribs. She tried to ignore it and let herself be carried away by his words, her mind filled with the sights and sounds she remembered from the mission, his details painting a fuller picture.

By the time she fell asleep, her ribs had ceased to hurt at all.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying the fic, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	4. Suspicion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up to this point in the fic, my friend CrazyAni was translating the Russian lines for me, but RL began demanding all of her attention, and I didn't want to take up her time if I could help it. So, after this chapter, I use only Google Translate. :) I hope to go back and fix it at some point, but for now, if any Russian speakers are reading this, I'm sorry if the Russian isn't correct! Please let me know if there are any terrible mistranslations.
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 4 **

The lights flickered on, buzzing briefly, and the girl's eyes opened instinctively at the noise.

She stared at the metal ceiling for a moment, registering the fact that she was not in the barracks. Memory returned as the last vestiges of sleep faded, and she started to rise from her bunk, but her breath caught as the movement reawakened her injured ribs. She pressed one hand to her side, trying to brace them, and carefully swung her legs over the edge of her bed.

"You are hurt, aren't you? You never said if you were last night."

Her eyes flew to the vent in surprise. The boy…Clint…was clinging to the ledge once again, watching her through the metal slats.

She quickly dropped her hand from her side and straightened up, ignoring the pain it caused. "I am fine," she answered curtly.

To prove it, she stood and walked closer, peering up at him. In the brighter light, she thought she could make out the shadow of a purple bruise along his cheekbone. He glanced away when he noticed her scrutiny.

"One of the guards took a swing at me yesterday." He released his hold on the ledge, disappearing from sight and landing once more on the concrete below. "What happened to you?"

"Training," she said simply.

"Training for what?"

She hesitated - she'd offered basic answers the night before, but this was something quite different. The Polkovnik undoubtedly had a reason for keeping Clint ignorant about the program, and she was not certain how to answer his question without giving him information he was not yet meant to have.

That, she knew, could be especially dangerous.

Even if their interaction had gone unnoticed thus far, each time they spoke it became more likely that they would be discovered. And, she could not discount the possibility that Clint was not what he seemed. He could still be acting under orders, trying to lull her into a false sense of security. Though, truthfully, if the program supervisors learned of her defiance, it wouldn't matter whether Clint's cooperation was extracted forcefully or offered voluntarily…she would pay the price either way.

She was still trying to decide what to tell him - or if she should tell him anything at all - when the sound of footsteps carried down the corridor. She instantly moved away from the wall adjoining Clint's cell and stood at attention in front of her bunk.

She kept her face impassive when the door of her cell swung open, but the guard paid her no heed, merely set a tray of food on the cement then closed the door once again. She waited until she was certain that the door would not open a second time, and when she was satisfied that it wouldn't, she bent to pick the tray up, carried it to her bunk, and sat down.

It was a simple breakfast: a bowl of plain porridge and a slice of rye bread without butter. A nutrient shake served as a beverage, if not an appealing one. She had a very faint memory of refusing to drink something similar - four days without any rations whatsoever had cured her of her fussiness.

She raised the glass to her lips, but froze when an unmistakable sound cut through the silence: the cocking of a gun. The noise was amplified outside in the corridor, echoing oddly.

A frown flickering over her features, she replaced the glass, set the tray on her bunk, and crept forward to the door, keeping low. She stood only when she reached the door itself, and peered outside through the narrow opening. The small window was high enough that she was forced to stand on her toes, and the angle was awkward, but she could make out the profile of one of the guards.

His stance was angry, and his raised arm - the one she assumed was holding a pistol - was pointing directly at the cell next to hers.

Clint's cell.

It seemed the guards had grown tired of his resistance.

She tensed as the door of the cell was opened, and she heard the scraping of a shoe against the concrete. She could not see Clint, but judging by the sudden silence, he had wisely stopped moving as soon as he'd seen the gun.

The guard sneered in response, and spat a long string of insults in Russian, literally asking for a reason to shoot.

Clint, apparently, did not give him one.

Another guard stepped forward with a tray identical to the one she had been given and slid it across the floor. Once that was complete, the door was quickly shut, and the guards turned to leave.

She ducked out of sight as they passed in front of her cell, but she caught a brief glimpse of the angry guard as he re-holstered his weapon. His jaw was swollen, a dark bruise forming on the left side of his chin.

Perhaps the guard hadn't been the only one to "take a swing" the night before.

She waited until the guard's footsteps had faded into the distance, then returned to her bunk and her meal.

She heard movement in cell next to hers, followed by a soft clink, and assumed that Clint had picked up his tray as well, something she had not been certain he would do. He seemed so adamantly uncooperative that she had wondered if he would refuse to eat at all.

"You heard what happened?" Clint asked after a moment.

"I did," she confirmed.

"First time they've pulled a gun on me like that. 'Guess I made 'em mad." The causal tone was forced, but the note of pride was not. "What'd he say? The guard, I mean."

She decided that it was best not to translate word for word. She was certain, somehow, that if she did, Clint would find a way to return the insults verbatim.

"He…does not like you," she answered carefully.

She was surprised, and oddly pleased, when he barked a short laugh.

"Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual."

She frowned faintly at his response. "Why do you antagonize them?"

In her experience, defiance was more trouble than it was worth. Clint, it seemed, did not agree.

"Maybe they can keep me here," he answered, his voice suddenly hard, "but I'm not just gonna sit back and take it."

There was a bitter edge to the words, one that seemed to hint at something deeper than a vendetta against his captors. It made her curious, but asking him about his past would inevitably lead to questions about her own.

She focused on finishing her meal instead, and for once, Clint didn't seemed inclined to break the silence.

An hour later, the guards returned, though the angry guard was noticeably absent, and this time, their guns remained holstered. They dragged Clint from his cell, fighting, kicking, and cursing yet again.

An hour after that, they came for her.

The girl kept her face impassive as she was led down the corridor, but tension grew in the pit of her stomach when she realized they were traveling in the direction of the Polkovnik's office. Such meetings were not entirely out of the ordinary - the Polkovnik oversaw a number of missions personally, and he had always seemed have a particular interest in her, though she was uncertain why.

But now, she was sure that he knew…he knew that she had been talking to the boy.

Had her superiors been watching all along?

Or had Clint told them?

A strange, heavy feeling settled in her chest at the thought.

_Trust no one._

It was a mantra she had been taught for those rare occasions when she was in the field, cut off from command, but her own, private interpretation was not limited by circumstances.

Clint had somehow succeeded in making her vulnerable nonetheless.

Her expression remained blank when they finally reached the Polkovnik's office, though her stomach churned unpleasantly as the door swung open to admit her. She half expected to see Clint standing at the Polkovnik's side as the proud new pupil, but the Polkovnik was alone.

"Вводить," the Polkovnik said simply. _Enter._

She did as he'd ordered, coming to strict attention in front of his desk while the guards took up positions behind her. The Polkovnik scrutinized her for a moment, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully.

"Вчера вечером, вы сопровождались в клетке," he began. "Мальчик был помещен в ячейку рядом с вашими." _Last night, you were escorted to a cell. A boy was placed in the cell next to yours._

Her throat tightened at his words, but she nodded sharply, promptly, as was expected of her.

"Да." _Yes._

"Имеет это мальчик говорил с вами?" _Has this boy spoken to you?_

Lying would only make the punishment worse.

"Да, полковник." _Yes, Polkovnik._

"Отлично." _Excellent._

The surprise she felt was enough to make her eyes widen, though she was quick to correct her slip; thankfully, the Polkovnik seemed willing enough to overlook it.

"Мальчик доказал…Непримиримой," he explained. "Мы разместили его с собой в надежде, что он будет рассматривать вас как сверстников и искать вашей компании." _The boy has proven…intransigent. We placed him with you in hopes that he would view you as a peer and seek out your company._

The girl blinked, her mind racing.

The Polkovnik had asked if Clint had spoken to her, but he'd never questioned if the reverse were true. So…perhaps she would not be punished after all.

Relief swept over her abruptly, though this time, the emotion was hidden carefully away, as was the unease that followed it. If the Polkovnik was to be believed, then Clint was exactly what he seemed.

Instead, the deception would be on her part.

It was not the first time she had been used in such a way. Her youth, her gender, they were all tools at the Red Room's disposal. To those who did not know her or her capabilities, she appeared non-threatening. Innocent.

She hadn't been either for a very long time.

"Что вы от меня хотите?" _What do you want me to do?_

The Polkovnik waved a hand. "Скажите ему о программе, что он поверит, вы рискуете себе поделиться. Завоевать его доверие. Тогда, убедить его, что сотрудничество в его интересах." _Tell him about the program, things he will believe you are risking yourself to share. Gain his trust. Then, persuade him that cooperating with us is in his best interests._

She frowned faintly at that - it was a restrained approach, one usually reserved for missions outside of the program's walls. Inside, they rarely had the need for such subtlety.

As though he'd sensed her thoughts, the Polkovnik clarified:

"Это имеет решающее значение, чтобы он остался нетронутым, но охранники растут нетерпение в связи с его выходки, как и я его сотрудничество не будет необходимости в течение длительного времени, но на данный момент, является предпочтительным. Вы, конечно, докладывать мне ежедневно и сообщить мне о вашем прогрессе." _It is pivotal that he remain intact, but the guards are growing impatient with his antics, as am I. His cooperation will not be necessary for much longer, but for the moment, it is preferable. You will, of course, report to me daily and inform me of your progress._

She gave another nod. "Да, полковник." _Yes, Polkovnik._

Apparently satisfied, the Polkovnik sat back in his chair and motioned towards the door.

"Вы уволены." _You are dismissed._

She turned on her heel, the guards immediately moving into position around her. They did not take her back to her cell but continued down the hallway towards the instruction rooms.

She was not surprised; her new assignment would not interfere with her training.

It did, however, leave her in a position she had not anticipated.

_Trust no one._

It was not precisely the lesson the Red Room had intended to teach her, but it was the lesson she had learned.

She simply did not wish to be the one to teach it to Clint.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying it, and as always, please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	5. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 5 **

The door of the cell closed behind her with a clang, the sound almost startling in the quiet, and the girl winced imperceptibly.

The metal door was heavy enough that its closure had left the cell vibrating faintly in its wake, and the sensation had traveled up her legs, sending small spikes of pain through her side.

She grit her teeth against it and walked over to her bunk.

Sitting down, she leaned back against the wall and let her eyes close as she took a few deep breaths, testing both her tolerance for the pain and the stability of her ribs. She didn't think they were cracked any worse than they had been before, but after tonight's sparring session, they ached.

The match had lasted well over an hour.

It wasn't the longest she had fought by any means, but her opponent had inevitably realized that she was favoring her right side and made that the focus of her attacks. The other trainee had never actually succeeded in landing a direct hit, but the prolonged defense had taken a toll of its own, and over time, the dull, steady throb the girl had been ignoring had turned into something sharper and more insistent.

It was tempting to lay down now, to take advantage of the privacy the cells offered - after all, her meeting with the Polkovnik made her fairly certain that she wasn't being observed. He would not have ordered her to report to him daily if he could simply monitor the cells for himself.

But, weakness was weakness, and even if no one else would ever know, she would.

In any case, she couldn't risk falling asleep; the guards would return with Clint soon, and it was the first night of her assignment. She would need to be alert.

The girl's eyes opened at that thought, and she stared at the door of her cell for a long moment.

She could not place the feeling that suddenly rose inside of her, did not have a name to describe it, but she clamped down on it nonetheless, and pushed it away. She had been given her orders, and she would obey them.

She had no choice.

Clint would understand that someday…perhaps someday soon, if the Polkovnik was to be believed.

Wrapping one arm around her torso for support, the girl drew her legs up on the bunk and waited.

She didn't need to wait long.

The sound of a scuffle down the corridor announced Clint's arrival, the now-familiar shouts and curses reaching her first. The noise grew louder until at last she could see the guards through the small opening in her cell.

She frowned when she realized that she could see Clint as well; the guards had succeeded in forcing him upright, and his arms were locked behind him in what she knew to be a painful hold. Clint tried to twist away, but the guards simply tightened their grip, and Clint flinched, curling in on himself a little as they dragged him forward.

Her frown deepened when the guards opened Clint's cell and pushed him inside. He landed on the floor with a grunt, and even after the door had closed and the guards had left, a minute passed before she heard Clint move again, slowly easing his way across the concrete, towards his bunk.

He was silent long enough that she wondered if she should say something, but she had never purposefully initiated their conversations before, and she did not want to make him suspicious.

In the end, he made the decision for her.

"Natasha?" His voice was strained. "You around?"

It was the first time he had called her by the name he had given her, but answering to it was surprisingly easy. "I'm here."

He huffed softly, the sound tinged with something like relief. "Thought maybe they'd moved you somewhere else."

"They didn't." It might have been better for him if they had.

She heard him shift again, his breath hitching, and she turned to stare at the wall adjoining his cell, brow furrowed.

"You're hurt."

It wasn't until the words had left her lips that she realized how similar they were to the ones he'd spoken that morning.

Fabric rustled in what she assumed was a shrug. "I've had worse."

If he hadn't said that so quietly, she might have believed that he was trying to impress her.

Her head tilted, eyes narrowing in thought. She couldn't help but wonder _when_ he'd "had worse," and how that fit with the picture he had painted of the circus the night before. It was possible that he was referring to something that had occurred in the Red Room, but that didn't seem likely - the Polkovnik had made it clear that he was not to be seriously harmed. So, chances were, he was to referring to something else.

She wanted to know what he meant, if only because knowing more about his past might influence how she dealt with him, but something in his tone had given her the sense that he would not appreciate her questioning.

That left her uncertain.

She couldn't afford to offend Clint, not if she wished to make any progress. Yet, she could not seem callous either - if he believed that she was genuinely concerned, he would be more likely to view her as an ally.

She settled for what she hoped was a middle ground. "How were you injured?"

"Today, you mean?"

"Yes."

"They made me run an obstacle course. Fired shots at me to keep me going. It worked until I realized they were using blanks and stopped halfway through. They didn't like that much."

 _No_ , she thought. _They wouldn't_.

"What about you? How'd you get hurt? You said something about training this morning."

He sounded curious…she supposed that was expected. She never had answered him earlier. Now she could.

"I was sparring."

"With who?"

"One of the others."

"The others?" His bunk creaked as he sat up. "How many are in here?"

"I don't know."

That was the truth. Interaction between trainees was carefully controlled, and even then, they were never allowed to meet in large numbers. She guessed that there had been close to a dozen in her age group once, but she had no way of knowing how many were left. Members of various other groups were scattered around the facility, some younger and some older, and some trainees were in the field, deployed on long-term, deep-cover missions. Others still, like Clint, were brought in independently. Tracking anyone…the few individuals she could remember…was impossible.

Apparently, that wasn't the answer Clint had hoped for because he made a low, pained sound as he stood, and she heard him start to pace, taking a few short, restless steps in his cell. That same frustration was just as evident when he spoke.

"What do they want from us? You said they want me because I'm good with my bow, but all they do is run tests."

"Tests?"

"Yeah. They keep taking blood samples and sending me through scanners. I'm always strapped down for that. Sometimes, like today, they have me do other things…endurance tests, I guess. I don't know what they're looking for."

She did. At least, she could guess. They were evaluating him…trying to determine the extent of his current abilities. It made sense, given what the Polkovnik had said.

Clint seemed to know what her silence meant. "Can you tell me anything?"

This was it, the moment she needed.

It had come more quickly than she'd expected. She should have been pleased.

She wasn't.

"I…I could be punished," she said at last, the words strangely sour in her mouth.

Clint sighed, the sound softer, more solemn. "I know."

She didn't doubt that. Even being treated as he was, Clint had seen enough to guess that inside these walls, _punishment_ was not something to be dismissed.

"I don't want to get you in trouble," he continued. "I just…"

He trailed off, letting the sentence hang. Fabric rustled and his boots scraped along the concrete; this was followed by the sound of cloth sliding against metal - he'd sat down again, she realized, not on his bunk this time, but on the floor. Judging by the nearness of the sounds, he'd chosen the corner closest to her - she wondered if that had been an unconscious choice or a deliberate one.

She heard a quiet exhale, but Clint didn't speak, not right away. It was almost a surprise when he did.

"I have a brother."

She looked up sharply, caught off-guard both by the comment and the sudden roughness of Clint's voice.

"His name's Barney. A couple weeks ago, he told me to meet in him the supply tent after the show. 'Figured it was a little weird, but I didn't really think much about it, you know? But when I got there, Barney wasn't alone. These guys were with him. Soldiers, I think. They jumped me. Barney, he just…he didn't…"

Clint's voice cracked faintly, and silence fell once again.

"I'm pretty sure they drugged me," he said at last, picking up his narrative as though it had never stopped. "That part…that part's kind of hazy. But when I woke up, I was here. So, Barney's gotta be the one who…" Clint drew a harsh breath and pushed on. "He set me up. I don't know what he got out of it. But, I just keep thinking, maybe, if I know more about this place, I can figure out why he…"

She heard Clint swallow, heard him fighting to keep control of the emotions which were so obviously close to the surface.

Understanding that he needed time, she let the quiet linger.

Almost against her will, her gaze drifted to her hands, one of which was still bracing her ribs, the other of which rested in her lap. Her fingers curled. She remembered the man she had been ordered to eliminate…the one who had contacted the Polkovnik through the Bratva.

Clint's brother.

She hadn't known who her target was then - it hadn't mattered.

But it did complicate things. Should she tell Clint that his brother was dead? She dismissed the thought quickly. She wasn't certain how Clint would react, if he would take satisfaction from that knowledge, or blame her for her part in the events.

Would he be right to blame her?

Her part in the mission had been minimal - "wet work," as the Americans sometimes said. She had not been directly involved with Clint's acquisition. But she had been there, nonetheless. She had killed his brother, even if his brother had brought it upon himself.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, uncertain if she had offered the apology because it matched the image she needed to project, or because she felt as though she needed to give it.

In any event, an apology would not be enough. After what Clint had told her, he would expect more, and she had an assignment to complete. She sighed, pretending to relent - she could not seem too eager to reveal the details of the program.

"I will tell you what I can," she promised quietly. "But no one must know."

"I won't say anything."

Clint meant that. She almost wished that he hadn't.

Closing her eyes and ignoring the pain from her ribs, she drew a deep breath and began. "It is called the Red Room."

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading, and especially those who have left kudos and reviewed! It's so appreciated. :)
> 
> It's honestly feedback that's helps inspire this fic - it would still be a one-shot if it weren't for all those who reviewed when I posted the original piece. So, thanks again to all those who do! :)
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	6. Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 6 **

They were giving her a Makarov today.

She would have preferred something else…a Glock, maybe. She liked the way a Glock fit in her hand, the weight and balance of it. But she was never allowed to choose the gun she used, and she was expected to be equally proficient with every sidearm she was assigned.

She took the Makarov without comment and entered the firing range.

The space was enclosed by dull gray walls on each side, but the back wall was painted a deep black, and numbered signs tacked to the ceiling marked off the distance from the shooter to the target. For this session, her targets hung in a long, straight row, each painted with the dark silhouette of a faceless man.

Gun held at her side, muzzle pointed towards the floor, she walked to the aperture she had been told to use, the sound of her footsteps oddly muffled by the ear plugs she wore, the world tinted yellow from the safety glasses covering her eyes. She paused when she reached her station, lifting the Makarov for inspection. She ensured that the weapon was not yet loaded, then checked the barrel and the sights, the motions automatic enough that her thoughts drifted as she worked.

In the three days since her mission had begun, she and Clint had spoken each night, and she had told him a great deal about the program. But, he had proven to be every bit as obstinate as he'd seemed, and his resistance had not lessened, though she had tried many times to emphasize the risk he was taking.

The Red Room's tolerance extended only so far.

Clint did not seem to care.

" _Maybe they'll figure I'm more trouble than I'm worth and let me go."_

" _You are not that naïve." It was a statement, not a question. She knew him well enough now to be sure of that._

_He snorted softly, the sound bitter, rather than amused. "Yeah. But that doesn't mean I'm just gonna roll over and do what they say."_

There had been no accusation in his tone, but she had heard one all the same. An unfamiliar spike of anger had lodged itself in her chest. He had no right to judge her, this boy who had yet to experience the worst the Red Room had to offer. But he _would_ experience it. She had no doubt of that. Eventually, the Polkovnik's patience would come to an end, and he would resort to other, more invasive measures.

" _They will get what they want,"_ she had warned Clint coolly. _"They always do."_

Eyes darkening at the memory of that particular conversation, she reached down to pick up one of the clips that had been placed on the counter for her use. She slid the clip into place, raised her weapon, aimed for the line of targets in front of her, and pulled the trigger. The report of her Makarov was almost soothing, the noise echoing in the range.

Her bullets struck one target after another, each at center mass, small flecks of paper following in their wake. When she was finished, she lowered the gun and examined her work.

Two of the bullet holes were a few centimeters to the left.

"Еще раз." _Again_. Her trainer's voice sounded distant as it issued from the observation chamber behind her.

She quickly replaced the old magazine with a new one, and waited for a fresh set of targets to move into position. She had always done well at the range, had even enjoyed it early on, though that had changed as her assignments had progressed, and she had been deemed ready for more than simple espionage.

" _They'll want me to kill people, won't they?"_

_Clint's voice was flat, and she doubted that he really needed the confirmation, but she gave it to him nonetheless._

" _Yes. Can you do it?"_

_There was a long silence, and she hoped it was not because he would refuse - the program would never accept such an answer._

" _Yeah," he said at last. "I think I can."_

" _That is good."_

" _No. No, it's not."_

The targets were set; her finger reached for the trigger, and the feeling of each shot coursed through her until all eight rounds were spent.

She knew even before she examined the targets that her second attempt was better than her first, but now one of her bullets had impacted the target slightly to the right. She was not surprised when the trainer's voice came from behind her once more.

"Еще раз." _Again_.

Her hands moved over the weapon automatically, sliding the used clip free and inserting another. The magazine locked into position with a click, and as soon as new targets had appeared, she raised her gun a third time.

The Makarov's recoil traveled down her wrists and to her ribs, but she did not allow the pain to interfere.

This was the world she knew…all she had ever known.

" _Did they take you like they took me?" Clint wondered._

" _I don't know."_ A woman's voice. A scream. Smoke _. "I was too young to remember."_

" _How old are you? How long have you been here?"_

" _I am thirteen." She was twelve - at least, that was the age she had been told to provide as Natalie Rushman. But, Clint was at least a few years older, and she hoped the extra year would make her seem less like a child. "I do not know how long it has been."_

" _They don't let you keep track?"_

" _There are many things we are not allowed to keep."_

The final target was struck and she lowered her weapon, her eyes raking over the range.

Her third attempt had proven to be the best thus far, in fact it was nearly perfect, though as she was well aware, _nearly_ was not good enough. She was preparing to reload once more when the trainer's voice reached her.

"Мне сообщили, что Полковник хочет поговорить с вами. Оставьте пушки на вашей станции. Я буду иметь дело с ним." _I have been informed that the Polkovnik wishes to speak with you. Leave the gun at your station. I will deal with it._

She signaled her acknowledgment of the order by raising her hand in a fist so that the trainer could see it from the observation chamber. Then, she flicked on the Makarov's safety and placed the gun on the ledge in front of her, frowning as she did so. Standard procedure dictated that she clean the weapon she had used, but the Polkovnik was clearly not to be kept waiting if the trainer was agreeing to do so in her stead.

A feeling of unease settled somewhere in her chest.

She had given the Polkovnik her report on Clint that morning, and something significant must have changed for him to require a second meeting now.

Removing the ear plugs and safety glasses she had worn, she turned and strode to the range's exit, a cadre of guards surrounding her as soon as she stepped into the hallway. They started immediately for the Polkovnik's office, and her unease did not lessen as she considered the possible reasons for her summons.

Perhaps the scope of her assignment was being expanded or redefined. Perhaps Clint had been questioned and they had discovered that she had spoken with him before she'd been cleared to do so. Perhaps…perhaps Clint had attempted to escape.

If that was the case, the Red Room might very well have decided that he was "more trouble than he was worth."

" _You're telling me you've never thought about it? Escaping?"_

_The denial should have been immediate, adamant. But the words simply did not come._

_Clint must have sensed an opening. "Listen, you know this place better than I do. Maybe we could make it."_

_She stared at the wall of her cell for a long moment. He'd said that they could leave together once before, that first night, but she had dismissed it as empty sentiment. Apparently, he had been more sincere than she had realized._

" _They will stop you," she told him at last, choosing to ignore his use of the plural. "And even if you somehow succeeded in leaving the compound, where would you go? Outside, there is tundra. Little cover and no shelter. The closest town is several miles from here. How would you survive?"_

" _I don't know." He sounded frustrated now._

" _They may not even let you get that far. They may simply kill you. Do you want to die?"_

" _No. But I don't want to live like this either."_

It was entirely possible that Clint had been as good as his word, she knew. The fact that she had not been with him was irrelevant. Despite his suggestion that they might have a better chance together, he was most likely desperate enough to make his attempt when the first opportunity arose, regardless of her presence.

But Clint had been considered a flight risk from the beginning, and was monitored carefully.

He would not have gotten far.

A strange sensation curled in her stomach at the thought, but she deliberately pushed it aside. She had no way of knowing if that was indeed the reason for this meeting, and speculation would do her no good. She would learn the truth soon enough.

A few minutes later, they reached the end of the hallway where the Polkovnik's office was located. The guard stationed at the door announced their arrival, and they were quickly ushered inside.

The Polkovnik was seated at his desk, a pad of paper resting in front of him, the open page filled top to bottom with script. His glasses were pushed to the end of his nose, and he held a pen loosely in one hand. He glanced up when she entered, then leaned back in his chair and waved her forward.

She stepped closer obediently and stood to attention, her back straight, chin raised, eyes locked on the wall behind him.

The Polkovnik did not bother with pleasantries.

"Ситуация сложилась в Берлине, тот, который должен иметь дело как можно скорее. Я думаю, что вы лучше всего подходит для этой задачи. Миссия подготовка начнется завтра." _A situation has developed in Berlin, one that needs to be dealt with as soon as possible. I believe you are the best suited for the task. Mission preparation will begin tomorrow._

She kept her expression deliberately neutral as the words registered.

Clint, it seemed, had not made an escape attempt after all.

It should not have mattered. Yet, it did.

But that did not stop the cold feeling beginning at the base of her spine, nor did it stop her heart from speeding up suddenly in her chest, even as she forced her breathing to remain even.

Mission preparation meant only one thing.

"И мое текущее задание?" she asked carefully. _And my current assignment?_

"Это будет продолжаться, пока. Миссия подготовки продлится несколько дней, и я не вижу причин, чтобы не поставить время, чтобы использовать, пока вы функционируют в соответствующей грузоподъемности." _It will continue, for now. Mission preparation will last several days, and I see no reason not to put the time to use, as long as you are functioning in the correct capacity._

She gave a clipped nod of understanding; her assignment would last only as long as she was capable of remembering that she had received it.

"А как насчет мальчика?" _What about the boy?_

The Polkovnik's eyes narrowed faintly at her inquiry, and she did not react, silently willing her heart rate to slow.

"Я предполагаю, что его статус изменится, а также," she clarified. "Нужно ли вносить изменения в том, как я имею дело с ним?" _I assume that his status will change as well. Will I need to make adjustments in how I deal with him?_

Such information could very well be important to her assignment, and perhaps, she admitted silently, it was important to her as well.

The Polkovnik studied her for a long moment, his free hand tapping the arm of his chair thoughtfully.

"Я сомневаюсь, что статус мальчика будет проблемой для вас," he said at last. "Тем не менее, я уверен, что вы сможете справиться с любой трудности, которые возникают." _I doubt the boy's status will be an issue for you. Nonetheless, I am certain that you will be able to handle any difficulties that arise._

Her jaw clenched imperceptibly, but voicing her questions once had been risky enough. She could not make a second attempt.

"Понял." _Understood._

With that, she assumed that the briefing was finished, and waited for the Polkovnik to speak, but he did not release her.

Instead, he tossed his pen onto his desk and grasped his glasses by their frame, removing them and reaching into his suit to retrieve a handkerchief. He polished the lenses for several long minutes, pausing only to check their clarity in the light.

He did not stare at her, did not even acknowledge her presence, but she was keenly aware that she was being observed all the same.

Finally, satisfied at last, the Polkovnik replaced his glasses and slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket.

"Вы уволены." _You are dismissed._

She acknowledged the command with a final crisp nod, then turned and strode from the room.

The guards moved into position around her, and they started down the hall once more. The gray walls of the facility slipped past her as they walked, and she noted their direction, automatically cataloguing their route, but it was habit, reflex.

Her mind was elsewhere.

The Red Room's leniency towards Clint had come to an end.

The Polkovnik had not stated that explicitly, but she had long ago learned to hear what her superiors did not say. She wondered if this had been the Polkovnik's plan all along, or if the Berlin mission had pushed up his time table. Clint might have even done that himself when his behavior had not changed.

She could guess what he would face.

Mission preparation…or something like it. That cold feeling in her spine spread slowly upwards, her chest tightening.

Clint was still untrained, so it was unlikely that he would be sent out immediately even if the Red Room was certain of his compliance. But, the Polkovnik had always referred to the process of...alteration...as mission preparation, and she had no other name to give it.

She had not been forbidden from discussing that aspect of the program with Clint, but she had avoided it nonetheless, sensing that if anything, it would only strengthen his resolve to resist.

If she had warned him sooner, maybe it would have made a difference.

But, what was done was done, and in a few days it wouldn't matter.

She couldn't regret something she did not remember.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple quick notes on the guns mentioned:
> 
> The Makarov Pistol or Makarov PM - This was the Soviet Union's standard military side arm for several decades.
> 
> The Glock Pistol - A popular handgun that was first produced in 1982, though there have been several versions since. Natasha uses a pair of Glocks in the Avengers movie.
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	7. The Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warning: there are some references to domestic violence and child abuse in this chapter. If you're sensitive to this topic, please read with care. Thank you.
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 7 **

It was quiet. That seemed almost strange now…she had grown used to having company. But, Clint had not yet been returned to the cell beside hers and she was alone.

She shifted on the bunk where she lay, and for the first time in days, the protest from her ribs was minimal. She had been taken to medical after her meeting with the Polkovnik, and the injury had been treated; her side was still cold from the ice pack they had given her, and the bandages wrapping her torso were snug beneath the fabric of her uniform. She had even been excused from further activities for the day and given a mandate to rest.

She might have been grateful for it, except that such measures were only to ensure that she would be fit for mission preparation tomorrow.

Her gaze drifted to the ceiling above her, the metal gleaming dully in the artificial light.

Light. There was always light when mission preparation took place. Light, and music…a melody that sometimes surfaced in her dreams, though she could never recall it when she woke. That was all she ever remembered of the procedure. As for the missions themselves…it varied. Some remained in glimpses, flashes, sensations. Others left her only with the vague knowledge that time had passed.

The assignments for which her mind had been her own…often, those memories grew hazy as well. She was never certain if that was an intended side-effect of mission preparation, or if such memories were simply a casualty of the process.

Almost against her will, her eyes found the vent adjoining Clint's cell.

When she was…not herself, it would seem as though the last few days had never occurred. But later, she wondered, when her mission was complete and her mind was returned to her, would she remember Clint then?

It would be easier, she reflected, if she did not. She held no illusions about what most likely awaited him, and any memories she retained would only compromise her objectivity.

If she were wise, she would hope that she remembered nothing of their meeting.

She was not certain that she was wise.

The thought skittered through her mind unbidden, and she closed her eyes, forcing it away. Already, she was walking a dangerous line and it would take very little to place her under closer scrutiny.

She did not open her eyes again until the sounds of a scuffle carried down the corridor.

A shoe dragged along the floor outside, screeching loudly, and she sat up just in time to see Clint yanked forward as the guards passed in front of her cell. When the door to Clint's cell was opened a moment later, he was shoved inside hard enough that he hit one of the metal walls with a grunt. He must have stayed on his feet because she didn't hear him fall, but the delay was all the guards needed to close the door behind him.

The hallway grew quiet again as the guards left, and she waited, assuming that Clint would speak, but he didn't. He simply paced over the concrete, his footsteps quick, the tension palpable even through the barrier between them.

"What is it?" she asked at last.

Clint stopped moving and exhaled sharply. "They finally said something to me that wasn't in Russian."

She kept her tone deliberately neutral. "Yet you sound angry."

"Because what they said didn't make any sense! They kept asking me these stupid questions! 'Do you like arranging flowers?' 'Would you rather kill a dog or a monkey?' That was it! They wouldn't say anything else." Clint must have struck at the wall closest to him because there was a sharp clang before he started pacing again.

Her gaze dropped to the simple blanket covering her bunk, the gray material rough beneath her palm.

The questions Clint spoke of were a psychological measure of sorts, one the doctors on base had always favored. She'd heard such questions a number of times herself, though how many, she could never be certain.

"You know something, don't you?"

Clint's voice was sharp, certain, and her gaze darted back to the wall in surprise. Had she tipped her hand so obviously already, or had he simply grown adept at reading her? She wasn't sure which she preferred. But maybe she could use this to her advantage. Perhaps, if he knew what awaited him, she could finally convince him that his defiance was doing more harm than good.

"I know why they were asking you such things," she said carefully. "I have heard them talking about you."

Clint scoffed, though she could sense the unease he wished to hide. "Let me guess - they don't like my attitude."

"You're not wrong."

"Well, that's too bad, 'cause it ain't gonna change. I'm not doing what they want."

"You won't have a choice."

There was a pause and she could imagine the look on his face, the way his eyes must have narrowed. "You always say that. Why?"

She hesitated, partly because she needed to draw this out to ensure his interest, but also because she was not sure how to describe the reality she had lived with for so long. She had never needed to explain it before.

"They can make you forget," she said at last.

"Forget what?"

"Anything they choose."

The silence this time was oppressive. She let it linger.

"That's…that's not possible," Clint said finally.

"I don't know how it works, only that it does."

He must have heard something in her voice because he didn't question the assertion this time, and when he spoke again, his own voice was quiet, strained.

"They've used it on you?"

"Yes."

Another silence.

"They're planning to use it on me, aren't they? That's what you meant. Those questions they asked…"

"They're assessing you. For the procedure."

She heard a sharp intake of breath, and a few halting steps. Suddenly, though she could not see him, she could feel the intensity of his stare through the wall.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me about this?"

The words were terse, angry, bitten off. She knew somehow that he longed to strike out again, though this time, not at the wall.

She decided to offer him the truth, at least partly.

"I didn't tell you because I knew you would fight harder."

"And that's a bad thing?"

His tone was so incredulous that she couldn't help bristling herself.

"You haven't listened to anything that I've told you," she grit out. "You can't win. Fighting them…you lose more than you gain."

That was hardly the persuasive argument she needed, and she drew a deep breath, forcing her anger back down. If she were to succeed, she couldn't allow him to affect her. This boy who had given her a name. This boy who had somehow made her vulnerable.

"You don't understand what they'll do," she said, working to keep her voice even. "Perhaps they won't kill you, but they'll make you wish that they had."

Clint didn't answer.

Long minutes passed, and she considered that he may have decided to stop speaking to her entirely. An odd tightness appeared in her chest, but she ignored it, focusing on her objective instead. She could not persuade Clint of anything if he refused to interact with her. Perhaps an apology would be enough to-

"My dad was a drunk."

The apology died on her lips, and she blinked, unsure why Clint was choosing to tell her such a thing now. But, at least he was speaking again. She would not interrupt him and risk having him change his mind.

"When he was drinking," Clint snorted bitterly, "and sometimes when he wasn't…he beat my mom. Beat Barney and me too. When I was six, he wrapped his truck around a tree. My mom was with him. My brother and me, we were sent to this home. The guy who ran it…he was a real piece of work. Almost made me miss my dad. But everything he did, we just took it, because we knew we'd only get it worse if we fought back. And you know what? I hated him. But I hated myself more because I _let_ it happen. I'm not gonna do that again."

She stared at the wall of her cell for a long moment, the confusion fading and something else taking its place, a look she would never have allowed had there been anyone to witness it, because part of her…part of her understood Clint's sentiment.

But in the Red Room, sentiment could never survive. Clint would have to face that soon.

"I told you before, you won't have a choice. You can't fight them."

"I can try."

"You'll lose."

"You don't know that."

"Yes," she said, sounding weary even to her own ears, "I do."

* * *

She laid awake for hours that night.

It wasn't until somewhere near the dawn that she had fallen asleep to the sound of Clint's pacing. (He had ignored her advice that he try to rest, a response which had not truly surprised her.) She woke a short time later as the base lights flickered to life; Clint's feet were once again scraping along the concrete as he walked back and forth.

She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then stood to straighten her bunk, smoothing the sheets, the blanket, and pillow. When she was finished, she sat back down, pulled her legs up onto the bed, and leaned against the wall to wait.

No trays were delivered that morning, and she hadn't expected that they would be - meals were never provided before mission preparation - but the emptiness in her stomach only seemed to add to the knot forming somewhere in her belly.

The change in routine did not go unnoticed by Clint, and his restlessness increased. Perhaps it was her own nerves, but the sound seemed grating in the light of day.

"You're wasting your energy," she snapped. "You wish to fight them? Stop moving."

It wasn't until after the words had passed her lips that she realized just what she had said - she was, in effect, advising an enemy of the Red Room. Such a thing could be considered treasonous.

But she did not take the words back.

Clint's steps paused, and a moment later, she heard his bunk protest as his weight dropped down onto it. She released a silent breath and closed her eyes briefly - if she were visibly agitated before mission preparation, it wouldn't escape their notice.

It hadn't escaped Clint's.

"They didn't bring anything for you either. No tray."

"No. They didn't."

There was a pause.

"They're making you forget too, aren't they?"

Her silence was answer enough.

"Is it because of me?"

She shook her head even though he couldn't see it. "I'm being sent on a mission."

"A mission to where?"

She wrapped her arms around her ribs which had begun to ache again over night. "You ask too many questions."

Clint huffed, the sound bitter. "Why not answer them? In a few hours, I'm not gonna remember anything anyway."

"It will be more than a few hours. The process takes time."

That quieted him for a moment.

"How long?"

"I don't know." Her own memories of it were never clear. "Days. Perhaps a week."

"Then there's still a chance." Clint's voice grew in sudden intensity, a mix of desperation and determination. "We can fight them."

_We_.

Her eyes found the wall adjoining his cell.

"What have we got to lose?" Clint insisted. "They'll take everything, no matter what we do. So why not fight?"

She stared at the wall for a long moment, something rising up within her, something she didn't dare voice…couldn't voice. The words simply wouldn't form on her tongue.

Perhaps, given enough time, they might have.

But the sound of footsteps echoed suddenly down the corridor and her gaze darted to the hallway instead.

She waited until the guards had passed in front of her door, then slipped quietly from her bunk and made her way to the small window that looked out into the hallway, positioning herself so that she was unlikely to be seen.

Three guards waited in front of Clint's cell while a fourth unlocked the door. They were clearly ready for resistance in some form, but when the door swung open, Clint gave them no chance to react. He ran into the corridor, tackling the nearest guard, bringing him to the floor, then jumped to his feet and threw a punch at the next guard who came at him.

The third guard was better prepared and swung hard at Clint's stomach; Clint doubled over, but instead of falling, he flung himself forward again, aiming for the guard's knees, taking him to the floor as well.

The guard Clint had punched suddenly lunged and grabbed Clint from behind, pinning his arms to his sides, and the fourth guard rushed forward before Clint could break free. But Clint swung his legs up and kicked out, sending the fourth guard back; the guard's head struck the wall hard enough that she heard the impact.

Clint managed to wrench one arm free, and jammed an elbow into the side of the guard who held him. The guard grunted in pain and let go; Clint spun and threw another wild punch, knocking the guard off his feet.

For a moment, the guards weren't a threat and Clint ran to door of his cell to retrieve the keys that had been left in the lock.

Then he started for her cell.

He was jumped again before he had even taken three steps.

The guard who'd recovered first was soon joined by the others, and Clint was pulled roughly to floor, the keys ripped from his grasp, his arms yanked quickly behind him, and his wrists bound in a set of handcuffs.

He was still fighting them, still struggling and cursing, but she knew, even as they dragged him back to his feet, that it was over.

The guard who'd been kicked into the wall snarled and hit Clint in the stomach - it was apparently the same place that the other guard had struck him because Clint folded inward, his shoulders hunched. The guards used his weakness to their advantage and forced him down the corridor.

The girl watched until they had faded into the distance, then quietly made her way back to her bunk and sat down, her eyes still locked on the door of her cell.

The door Clint had tried to open.

Half an hour later, they came for her.

Their numbers had been doubled - eight men instead of four, and she forced herself not to react to their presence, to question why the Polkovnik had felt such measures were necessary. She walked steadily down the corridor in their midst, her face impassive, her breathing as deep and as even as she could make it.

When they reached the gray room with a medical table at its center, she did as she was ordered and laid down on it, staring at the ceiling while the doctors buzzed around her in their white coats. The sound of a heart monitor filled the silence as various leads were attached to her chest, and thick leather straps were wrapped around her wrists and ankles. Another was wrapped around her forehead, keeping her head and neck immobile.

When the preparations were complete, the Polkovnik appeared at her side, his hands clasped behind his back, his glasses perched low on his nose as he looked down at her.

"Мальчик пытался вам," he began without preamble. _The boy tried to free you_.

She was certain now why the Polkovnik had doubled the number of guards; the beeping of the heart monitor increased faintly.

"Он мне как союзника. Он исходит из того, что я хотел бы помочь ему скрыться." _He views me as an ally. He assumed I would help him escape._

"И если он преуспел в деле освобождения?" he challenged. "А что бы сделали вы?" _And if he had succeeded in freeing you? What would you have done then?_

There was only one possible answer she could give.

"Я хотел бы сделать все необходимое." _I would have done whatever was necessary._

The Polkovnik stared at her for a long moment, his gaze piercing. "По сути," he said at last. "Но необходимые для кого?" _Indeed. But necessary for whom?_

Without giving her a chance to respond, he nodded at one of the doctors, and the lights above her grew brighter. A strange hum started behind her, spreading to her whole body until every nerve seemed to tingle with it.

Then, the world went white.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	8. Forget Me Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.

** Chapter 8  **

Her eyes opened slowly.

At first, she simply stared straight ahead, unseeing. But, gradually, the shapes in view began to make sense and she realized that she had been returned to her cell. She was laying on her bunk, her feet dangling over one end, a spring digging into her back. She shifted slightly, hoping to dislodge it, but her vision swam in response, and she let her eyes slip closed once more.

For a moment, she was tempted to simply fall back into the realm between waking and sleeping, to drift in that half-aware state. But, inevitably, the questions came.

What had they done to her mind? What was different? What had they changed?

She felt a brief moment of panic, but quickly suppressed it and drew a deep breath instead, forcing herself to take stock, calling up memories one by one.

It should have been a relief that nothing seemed out of place, but it wasn't. If nothing appeared to have changed, it was only because she couldn't see the new memories for what they were - they seemed to have always belonged to her.

She swallowed again, her fingers digging into the gray blanket covering her bunk.

A soft groan startled her and her eyes opened, finding the wall of her cell.

_Clint._

His name sounded in her mind with surprising ease.

There was another groan, followed by a grunt of effort, and then the sounds of retching.

She grimaced faintly. "Moving will make it worse," she offered.

"Yeah," Clint agreed, his voice strained.

He didn't say anything else, and she didn't press him.

She wasn't certain how much time passed, but gradually, the dizziness she felt reached a more tolerable level. Drawing one last deep breath, she slowly rose to a sitting position. At first, the world seemed to waver, but that passed quickly, and she judged it safe enough to remain upright.

Clint must have had a similar thought because there was rustling in his cell, but a low sound of pain followed and she frowned.

"Clint?"

"Headache," he managed. He swallowed thickly. "Tried to walk the tightrope once and fell off. Hit the net wrong and landed on my head. Feels kind of like that."

Her frown deepened. Mission preparation was never pleasant, but her own pain was not usually that intense. Though, she realized, it was possible that she had developed a sort of tolerance for it. Clint did not have that advantage.

She sighed softly. "My mother always drank peppermint tea when she had a headache. She said it was an old remedy."

"Your mother?" For a moment, the pain in Clint's voice was replaced with confusion. "You made it sound like you couldn't remember your family."

She opened her mouth to disagree, then quickly closed it again, realization settling in her chest like a heavy weight.

"I can't," she said at last.

"Then why-"

"They can make you forget," she responded curtly. "They can also make you remember things that aren't real."

But was that actually the case? Were these new memories completely false, or had they once belonged to someone else? Another trainee, perhaps? Could it be that at some point, another girl in the program had remembered the life that would have belonged to Natalia Alinova Romanova?

Her jaw clenched and she forced the thought away - she could not consider that now.

Clint, for his part, was silent; she was certain, somehow, that he was doing precisely what she had done, searching through his memories, looking for gaps, for inconsistencies.

"I don't think there's…" he said finally, trailing off. "I mean, there's nothing…nothing new, or missing. I would know."

"Would you?" she challenged, frustration making her voice sharp.

He had no answer for that, and she released a breath, letting her eyes close once more.

 _Frustration, anger - they are a distraction, a waste of energy_. _They will only cloud your judgment._

The words flitted through her mind unbidden, and one hand curled into a fist in her lap.

Training…that always remained. No matter what they did, no matter which life she believed she had lived, it never left her.

What would remain in Clint's mind, when they were finished?

Her eyes opened and found his cell once more.

He had seen her false memories for what they were. Maybe she could do the same for him.

"Tell me about the circus," she said suddenly.

She could imagine the look that must have crossed his face.

"But I already-"

"Tell me again. Everything you can remember."

There was long pause, but he must have realized why she was asking, because finally, he sighed.

"I started as a roustabout. I wasn't much of a roustabout at ten, I guess - couldn't pick up much more than an empty crate. Anna always says I was so skinny that I'd have blown away in a strong wind…"

* * *

"Natasha?"

She blinked and wondered distantly how long she'd been staring up at the ceiling.

It was strange…she remembered falling asleep to the sound of Clint's voice the night before, images of the circus playing in her mind's eye. She remembered the morning too, when the guards had arrived to take them away again.

But she didn't remember the procedure itself. She didn't remember waking from it.

"Natasha?" Clint asked again.

A frown flickered over her features. Natasha? Why would he…?

Her fingers curled into a fist until her nails bit into her palm. _Natasha._ That was what Clint had always called her, not…not Anja. Anja. It had been her grandmother's name too. She'd never met her grandmother, but her mother had told her so many stories-

"Natasha?"

He sounded worried.

"I'm fine," she managed at last.

"Right," he agreed.

His voice was thick, strained, and that made her frown deepen.

"You still have a headache."

It hadn't been a question, but he answered nonetheless.

"Yeah."

She heard him swallow.

"I had a costume," he said suddenly, and it took her a moment to realize that he was picking up their conversation about the circus.

She almost stopped him - if his headache was worse, as it seemed to be, talking would hardly improve it. But there was a faint, desperate edge to his words, one she couldn't help but identify with, and she held her tongue.

"Lily came up with the design, and Anna helped her make it. They wanted me to wear a mask too - it had feathers, 'cause my stage name was Hawkeye. But I didn't want the mask getting in my way and messin' up my shots. Trickshot finally told 'em to listen to me because I was the one with the bow, and it was my call."

Anja…Natasha closed her eyes and just listened.

* * *

This time, consciousness came in fits and starts, awareness slipping through her grasp like water through her fingers. No matter how hard she grasped for it, she couldn't hold on.

Memories flooded her mind, most passing before she could examine them.

But there was one, a long-ago vacation, that seemed more vivid than the rest. Her papa had wanted a break from the hustle and bustle of Berlin, and brought them all to the wetlands of Spreewald. He rented a small boat there, and they had been enjoying the sights from the river when the boat had come across some unexpected rapids and capsized. Her mama and papa were strong swimmers, and they had been able to fight against the current, but she had been swept downstream before they could reach her.

She hadn't been in the river for long - her papa had rescued her before she'd been carried too far. But the shock of cold water, the sensation of the current pulling her under, the absolute helplessness…she felt that way now.

Like she was drowning.

"Natasha?"

At last, she came up for air.

* * *

The floor of her cell swam slowly into focus, and she realized distantly that she was laying on her stomach, her head dangling off the edge of her bunk. Perhaps the guards had been careless when they returned her, or maybe she had been restless before she'd woken.

Either way, the position was uncomfortable, and she sat up slowly. Her head throbbed dully with the movement and she stilled, waiting until the pain faded before she let her eyes drift to the cell beside hers.

Clint.

The name rang clearly in her mind, though a few of the memories surrounding him seemed hazy, like a dream she could not quite recall. But she remembered enough to know that he usually woke first.

"Clint?"

There was no answer.

She shifted on the bunk and called again, louder this time.

"Clint?"

At last, there was low groan, followed by a grunt of effort that was cut off by a sharp intake of air; when he spoke, there was an odd breathless quality to his voice that made something stir uneasily in the pit of her stomach.

"Natasha?"

"Ich bin hier," she assured.

Clint didn't respond, and as the moments stretched, it finally dawned on her what she had said.

"I'm here," she answered again, careful this time, not to slip into German, even if there was something comforting about speaking her native tongue. "How is your headache?"

"I'm fine."

"That is not what I asked."

"I know."

There was another pause, and she wasn't surprised by the sudden change of topic that followed.

"You ever roller skated?"

"I…" Had she? She remembered a ninth birthday party and a rink, but… "I don't know."

"I have. Mark…I mean, Max, one of the clowns…he used roller skates in his act. I got to mess around with them sometimes. Mark was our juggler. He could juggle anything he picked up. Fire was the crowd favorite, 'cause he juggled a set of torches blindfolded. He wasn't as crazy as this fire eater we had for a while, though. The guy practically guzzled gasoline. He burned down his trailer one night, practicing with hot coals. His name was…was…"

When Clint fell abruptly silent, she didn't need to ask why.

* * *

"Don't let me forget him."

The words pulled her back to consciousness, and she blinked once, twice, and then frowned.

"Who?"

"Barney. My brother. Don't let me forget Barney."

"Why?"

"Because someday," Clint said, his voice low, "I'm gonna get out of here. And I'm gonna find him."

He did not say what he would do when he found his brother, but there was no need.

Bright colors flitted through her mind, oddly vivid though the memories before them seemed faded and tattered. There was distant laughter, voices. A man lying dead at her feet.

Clint's brother.

For a moment, she considered telling Clint the truth - that revenge was already out of his reach.

But then she thought of that fast moving current, of losing the one thing that seemed to be keeping her from going under completely.

"I won't let you forget," she promised instead.

It was a promise she couldn't possibly keep, but she suspected he already knew that.

* * *

When she woke, there was a strange roaring in her ears, like she had just surfaced after a lengthy swim, though she could not say just how long it had been. She sat up and shook her head, then rubbed at her eyes.

Her vision cleared a moment later, and she let her gaze wander around the room.

The steel walls and cement floor were as unremarkable as ever, but she could not shake the feeling that something wasn't right.

Finally, she realized what it was. It was quiet. Too quiet.

"Hallo?"

There was silence for a moment and then a pained breath, barely loud enough for her to hear.

"Hallo?" she repeated.

After a long moment, a groan came from the cell beside hers.

She frowned, a name on the tip of her tongue, but it slipped away just as she reached for it. She shook her head again, frustrated.

"What is wrong?" she asked instead.

She heard him swallow.

"Headache." There was a hesitant pause. "What's your name?"

"Anja. Anja Hitzig."

"We…we talk, don't we?"

She nodded even though he couldn't see it. "Ja."

"What do we talk about?"

She thought for a long moment. "Zirkus," she said finally. "The circus."

"The circus…" Another pause. "I don't know what to say about it."

For some reason, his words caused a tight feeling inside her chest.

"Then I will speak instead," she offered. "My mama is a teacher, und my papa ist ein Geschäftsmann.…a businessman. We lived in Munich until I was seven, but then Papa's business took us to Berlin…"

* * *

Her eyes fluttered open, and she squinted at the light above her. It was uncomfortably bright, though not as bright as another light…the white one she could see so clearly in her mind.

Drawing a deep breath, she pushed herself up on the bunk and cautiously swung her legs over the side. The world did not seem to waver, and she breathed a small, relieved sigh, the soft noise seeming almost unnaturally loud in the quiet.

It should not have been quiet, she realized uneasily. But the boy in the cell beside hers hadn't made a sound.

"Hallo?" she tried.

Nothing.

"Hallo? Warum sagst du nichts?"

Still, not a word.

Something tugged at her awareness insistently, and her gaze found the vent at the top of the wall their cells shared. Biting her lip, she measured the distance from the floor to the vent, then standing, she backed up to the other side of the cell and ran, jumping as high as she could. Her fingers caught the edge of the vent, and clung there until she was able to pull herself up to peer into the other cell.

She could see him now.

The boy was sitting in a corner, his back against the metal wall, his arms and legs akimbo as though he'd just been dropped there and hadn't bothered to move.

He was staring straight ahead, his face entirely blank, his eyes hollow.

That was startling somehow, wrong in a way she couldn't explain, and she almost lost her grip on the vent. She scrambled quickly to regain it, her foot hitting the wall as she did so, and the sound was enough to finally make the boy look at her.

He blinked and gazed at her for a long moment, his brow wrinkling with something like confusion before he looked away again.

The girl watched him for a moment longer, then reluctantly dropped to the floor and made her way slowly back to her bunk.

* * *

It was the footsteps that woke her.

She sat up and watched as the guards passed in front of her cell.

A moment later, she heard the jingling of keys and the release of a lock, followed by the sound of a heavy metal door swinging open.

She heard the boy's feet scrape against the concrete as he stood. There was a pause, the briefest moment of hesitation. Then he walked from the cell, footsteps echoing as the guards led him down the hall.

A day passed, and he did not return.

Two days later, she was sure that he never would.

Three days later, Anja Hitzig left for Berlin.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think! :)
> 
> -Laughter


	9. Declaring War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Finelame86 for her help on the French translations. :)
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 9 **

_23 years later (2010)_

The Frenchman's hand was warm where it rested just above her waist, guiding her through the doorway of his hotel room. She waited until he had closed the door and locked it - a man in the public eye had to be careful, after all - then she turned to face him with a toss of her head that sent her long red curls rippling down her back.

She watched as his gaze wandered over her freely, taking in the strapless dress she wore - a bright spring green with a hem that fell just above her knees, and a generous slit in the side that stopped at the middle of her thigh. It was modest enough that it wouldn't seem out of place at a political fundraiser, though still revealing enough to attract the kind of attention she needed to.

Ives Hébert had certainly noticed her.

Hébert had the bland good looks expected of a young, up-and-coming politician, and an easy personal charm that worked well on camera or in front of an audience. But, he lacked the hardened, suspicious edge a more experienced political player might have had, and that had made her job quite easy.

A few flirtatious smiles and witty comments and he'd spent the evening practically glued to her side, though he undoubtedly wanted to believe that the opposite was true. He'd invited her up to his room for a drink as soon as the fundraiser had begun to wind down, and of course, she'd accepted.

But, considering the look in his eyes now, she wasn't surprised that he'd decided to forego the drinks entirely, and didn't offer any resistance when he pulled her flush against him.

"Vous êtes tellemement belle." _You are so beautiful._

The lilting French words were a murmur against her ear, and she smiled, tangling her fingers in his hair. He grinned back, pleased with her reaction, and bent down to kiss her eagerly.

He really was too trusting.

He was also severely allergic to peanuts.

Within moments, he was pulling away, blinking rapidly, taking strained, gasping breaths.

"Qu'est-ce que…? Je ne.…" _What…? I don't…_

His eyes widened in sudden realization as he recognized the symptoms. He began frantically searching the pockets of his suit for the EpiPen he always kept with him.

"Aidez-moi!" he pleaded. _Help me!_

In his panic, it took him several seconds to realize that she wasn't rushing to his aid.

He paused his search just long enough to look at her again, and his expression grew horrified as she stared at him impassively. As though suddenly desperate to get away from her, he stumbled back and lurched for the nightstand by the bed, ripping open the drawer.

It was empty, of course - she'd made certain of that earlier.

If Hébert had been thinking clearly, he might have tried to make a desperate bid for the door and the hallway outside, but instead, he dropped to his knees in disbelief, clutching at his chest.

"Non, non, non…" he gasped, shaking his head. _No, no, no_ …

His breathing was growing worse; it was little more than a wheeze as his throat swelled. It wouldn't be long now.

And it wasn't.

Within a few minutes, he'd fallen onto the carpet, one hand stretched out towards her, his open eyes staring at her accusingly.

She wondered if he realized that this had been something of a mercy.

He'd allied himself with an enemy of the Red Room and her superiors had promptly decided to make an example of him…a warning for all those who knew to look for such a message.

Her original orders had been to leave a gruesome spectacle in the hotel room, then to run through the hallways screaming bloody murder, terrified and tearstained, babbling about the three masked men she saw fleeing the scene.

The death she'd given Hébert instead had been relatively peaceful by comparison.

She bent down to check his pulse, and satisfied that there wasn't one, she pulled a tissue from her purse and removed the peanut-oil-laced lipstick she'd worn. She walked to the bathroom and quickly flushed the wipe before she set to work on the room.

She replaced both EpiPens - the one she had taken from his jacket pocket while they'd kissed, and the other she had taken from his nightstand a few hours earlier.

Then, she dressed Hébert in his nightclothes, hung up the suit he'd worn, and arranged him in the bed. When he was discovered in the morning, it would seem, at first, that he had simply died in his sleep. His head lulled towards her as she pulled up the covers on the bed, his sightless eyes still open. She closed them, noting that they were blue, and not a particularly distinct shade.

Unbidden, another pair of eyes flitted through her mind…blue-gray, with small flecks of teal, green, and gold. She could not remember the face or the name which accompanied them, but those eyes…no matter how many times she had been torn apart and remade, she had not forgotten them.

Pushing the thought away, she rumpled the pillow as though Hébert had been restless enough to do it himself, then reached beneath the bed to retrieve the duffle bag she had hidden there.

She unzipped it and picked up the scissors first, reaching for a lock of her red hair, quickly cutting it to just above her shoulder. She continued until the rest matched this length, and though the overall effect was a bit rough given how quickly she had worked, it would do. She put the discarded pieces of hair in a plastic bag which she tucked back inside the duffle, so that she could dispose of them later. The jewelry she'd worn was deposited in another plastic bag before it too was tucked away. Her purse followed.

Grabbing the hem of her dress, she pulled it over her head and shoved it inside the duffle as well, then took out a baggy sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, a baseball cap, and a pair of glasses. She kicked off her high heels, and slid into the jeans, pulling on the sweatshirt before slipping into the tennis shoes. She tucked the now-much-shorter strands of her red hair up into the baseball cap, careful to hide as much of it from view as she could. She would dye her hair later - probably to a much less memorable brown - but right now, there wasn't time.

The glasses were last - they were only a cheap set of reading glasses, and because they were actually unnecessary, they distorted her vision faintly. But, they helped to ensure that she looked nothing like the woman who had been seen on Hébert's arm all evening, so she would tolerate them until Paris was far behind her.

She paused just long enough in front of the mirror to make sure that she was satisfied by her reflection, then examined the room one last time, careful to remove any lingering evidence of her presence. This had to look like some sort of accident, at least initially. She had no doubt that someone would eventually realize it was murder, but her caution now would insure that by the time the investigation into Hébert's death had progressed, she would be long gone. She was confident that the French police would be no threat to her.

The Red Room, however…they would learn the truth quickly, and they would come for her.

" _Do you want to die?"_

" _No. But I don't want to live like this either."_

She was not sure when that resolve had solidified in her mind, but it had.

She'd planned for years. The glasses she'd bought at a Walgreens in Washington D.C. The sweatshirt in a tourist shop in Trondheim, Norway. The scissors in Taiwan. Little by little, she had slowly gathered and stored the supplies she would need.

She suspected that she'd had to start over several times as one personality and then another had been stamped into her consciousness, erasing the progress she had made, but somehow, through it all, she had managed to cling to the idea of escape.

When her preparations were complete, she had waited for an opportunity to present itself.

The Hébert mission had provided precisely what she needed. It was a simple assassination, requiring only the most basic of cover identities, and she had been allowed to carry out the mission while her mind was still her own. Better yet, the timeframe of the mission was rather loose; her superiors had simply ordered that Hébert was to die "at some point during the night." As the Red Room had no way of knowing how long it would take her to secure an invitation to Hébert's room, she'd had a small but significant window during which she would not be under close scrutiny.

Killing Hébert quietly had extended that window even more, since his death had not yet caused a swarm of police and media to descend upon the hotel. When the Red Room discovered that Hébert was dead, though not in the manner they had ordered, they would assume that there had been an unexpected complication. They might even come to the conclusion that such difficulties would delay her return. At best, it would only afford her a few additional hours before the Red Room began to search for her, but she planned to put the time to good use.

Bending down to retrieve her duffle bag, she walked to the door, turned the knob, and stepped out into the hall.

She was under no illusions - once the Red Room knew she'd defied them, they would expend all of their resources to hunt her down. By doing this, she was declaring war.

" _You can't fight them."_

" _I can try."_

* * *

Two weeks had passed in a flurry of travel.

A train from Paris had carried her to Spain and then she'd caught a flight to Italy, and another to China, and finally, she'd gone on to South America. She paid for each of her tickets and forged passports with money she'd stolen from passing tourists, always using cash, keeping her movements as random as possible. She'd spent several nights on the streets, preferring anonymity to comfort, and she purchased most of her food and necessities from street venders, who were less likely to keep careful track of their customers.

In Quito, Ecuador, she had found a small grove of trees on the edge of the city and claimed it as her own, hiding her supplies there among the bushes while she ventured out to search for more. Her hair was now a dark brown, and much of the clothing she'd collected was deliberately bright, in keeping with the warmer colors often favored among the locals. She'd hoped that from a distance, she would blend in fairly well. Still, given her pale skin, she wasn't likely to be mistaken for a native, and she'd taken to going out mostly at night.

Tonight, she had dressed in a loose red top with floral embroidery and a pair of black slacks, planning to make her way through the middle of downtown, where she could slip in and out of the crowds, pick-pocketing. She was walking through an alley when a prickle of awareness ghosted down her spine.

That was all the warning she had before something streaked through the air towards her head. She dove for the asphalt, her knees hitting the pavement hard; she spun around to see an arrow embedded in building she'd been standing in front of just a second before. She jumped to her feet and drew the gun she had hidden at her back. She estimated the trajectory of the shooter and emptied a clip in that direction, retreating further into the shadows at the same time.

She pressed her back against a nearby brick wall, ejected the spent magazine and slid another one into place. She felt a sudden stinging on her face, a thin, burning line stretching from the corner of her right eye to her temple. She brought her free hand up, unsurprised when her fingers came back coated in red. That arrow had come even closer than she'd realized.

Adjusting her grip on her weapon, she scanned the darkened alley for any signs of movement, but there was nothing.

Suddenly, there was someone beside her, and a sharp pain exploded in her left hand, forcing the gun from her now-uncooperative fingers. The gun fell to the pavement, and she lashed out, drawing up her other elbow and driving it into flesh.

But he - she could tell now that her attacker was male - responded by bringing his knee up into her stomach. She doubled over and he spun, bringing his other leg around to pull her off her feet.

The air was driven from her lungs as she struck the ground, and for an instant, time seemed to slow as she stared up at the man who might very well become her killer.

He wasn't particularly tall, but his compact frame was heavily muscled, and he was dressed head to toe in black. He wore no insignia, but she knew who it was that had sent him because he watched her with the same blank stare that her own marks saw just before they died.

In the space of a heartbeat, he drew another arrow, raised the bow he held, and fired.

She was moving before she'd even registered it, twisting sideways on the ground.

The _thwack_ of the arrow sounded unnaturally loud as it passed just a hair's breadth from her ear. She twisted around again and kicked up with both legs, aiming for the bow. It wasn't enough to drive the weapon from his hands, but it did make him stumble back, and she was able to use the momentum to jump to her feet.

Her gaze dropped quickly to her injured left hand, and though she wasn't sure precisely what had made the wound, there was a deep, bleeding gash across the back of it. She grit her teeth against the pain, and curled her hand into a fist, ignoring the rivulets of blood that trailed down her wrist in response.

He was coming at her again in an instant, surprising her by swinging his bow like a staff, forcing her to arch backwards as it passed a short distance from her face. She dropped into a crouch immediately afterwards, and reached for the sheath she had strapped to her calf beneath the leg of the pants she wore. Her uninjured hand grasped the hilt of the knife just as his foot came racing towards her head. She ducked and rolled, coming up behind him with the knife drawn.

He blocked her strike with his forearm, dodging the blade, and instead of pulling away, he dropped his bow and wrapped both arms around hers, trapping her against him, using his strength to push the blade towards her instead. The point moved closer to her own throat, making her tilt her head back to avoid it.

Her eyes locked on the hard lines of his face, the square jaw and broad nose…the impossibly familiar blue-gray eyes, with small flecks of teal, green, and gold…impossibly familiar because she shouldn't have recognized them…but she did.

" _I do trick shots with my bow."_

" _You are good?"_

" _Yeah. I am."_

His name was suddenly on her lips, a name she'd thought lost.

"Clint."

But there was nothing. No flicker of recognition, no hesitation.

The blade drew closer still, and she flexed her burning muscles, trying to halt its progress.

"Clint," she tried again.

She felt the tip of the knife touch the skin of her neck.

Grunting with the effort, she twisted to the side suddenly, thrusting the knife into the air over her shoulder. The change in direction clearly caught Clint off-guard, because his grip loosened just enough that she was able to turn the movement into a flip that wrenched his arms and made him double over.

Without wasting a second, she shoved him forward, headfirst into the brick wall.

He hit hard, releasing his grip on her knife as he crumpled to the ground, stunned.

She turned and ran, still clutching the knife, but not bothering to retrieve the gun she had lost earlier. She wasn't certain how long Clint would be down, and she needed to put as much distance between them as she could.

She thought she heard him stirring as she reached the end of the alley and kept going, bursting into the middle of the street beyond. A car screeched to a halt in front of her as the shocked driver, a woman, slammed on the brakes and started cursing in Spanish.

Ignoring the woman's ranting, she walked around the car, flipped the knife in her hand, and used the hilt to break the driver's side window. It sent a shower of glass over the woman, and the angry tirade stopped, replaced by frightened cries. She reached inside the door to unlock it and threw the woman out onto the road, taking her place in the driver's seat. Then, she pulled the door shut behind her and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	10. Predator and Prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to everyone who is reading, and a special thanks to those who review!
> 
> And, as always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.

** Chapter 10  **

She watched impassively as the needle and thread slid through the skin on the back of her left hand. The doctor had used a topical anesthetic to dull the pain - he had offered to use something stronger, but she'd refused.

She couldn't afford to have her senses dulled, even a little, first, because she wasn't sure how long it would take Clint to follow her trail, and secondly, because she didn't trust the doctor treating her now.

She'd surprised him in the small clinic where he worked, just as he'd been closing for the evening, and promised that she would spare his life in exchange for his cooperation and silence. After all, if he returned to work the next day, no one would ever be the wiser. If he disappeared, and his body was found, there was a chance, however small, that the Red Room would connect it to her. Dead men, she knew, did sometimes tell tales.

Still, despite her promise to the doctor, she'd kept her knife in her good hand, and every few minutes she saw the doctor's eyes dart towards it nervously. His stitches were good, though, his fingers quick and steady. Steadier than hers would have been, if only because she would have had the use of just one hand to accomplish the task.

It was the reason she had decided to risk approaching the doctor in the first place. If the injury scarred obviously, it might very well serve as an identifying mark the Red Room would search for, since she had no doubt that Clint would relay the specifics of the fight to his superiors.

Clint.

His name came easily to her now - as though she'd never forgotten it in the first place. But she did not remember learning it, didn't even truly remember who he had been to her, or how they had met, except that it had been inside the Red Room.

Nonetheless, small glimpses…flashes of him had remained with her. She had hidden them away with the few memories she had of  _before_  - memories of a woman's voice, a scream, and smoke - and somehow, she had always found them waiting for her when her mind was her own.

Clearly, Clint did not remember her in the same way - or perhaps, if he did, he did not care about whatever connection they may have had in the past.

That, she knew, was the smarter course to take. Sentimentality could get her killed…and it still might, because she hadn't pressed the advantage when she'd had it. She'd run instead.

She could excuse it as a tactical decision. She'd had no way of knowing if Clint was working alone or if others had been with him, and a quick withdrawal might very well have been critical for her survival. Moreover, even if Clint was working as a solo operative, his death would have provided only a short delay because the Red Room would simply send someone else in his place. The benefit to her would have been negligible at best.

In the end, however, she knew that such excuses were weak.

Clint had been trying to kill her. Had nearly done so. Every instinct, all of her training, demanded that she neutralize the threat he posed.

But…

" _We can fight them."_

In all likelihood, the Clint who had spoken those words was gone; the Red Room wouldn't have allowed him to live, even if they planned to keep his heart beating. But she remembered that Clint all the same.

She would not kill him unless she absolutely had to.

"It's done," the doctor told her in accented English.

She looked down at her hand, now marked by a long, neat row of black stitches. She moved her fingers experimentally, tightening her hand into a fist, testing her range of movement. The stitches pulled at her skin, but they held.

Satisfied, she nodded at the doctor and stood. He moved away instinctively, eyes wide, and she followed until she was directly in front of him, her knife poised just inches from his jugular.

"I was never here," she said simply.

He nodded as adamantly as the knife at his throat would allow, and she watched him for a long moment, seeing nothing but terrified sincerity in his expression. She withdrew the knife and bent to replace it in the sheath strapped to her calf.

Then, she walked away without a backward glance.

* * *

She'd left Ecuador as quickly as she could. She'd made her way across the continent, stealing cars when necessary or taking the bus when traveling in a crowd provided better cover. When she'd reached Barinas, Venezuela, she'd checked into a motel, hoping that the change in tactics might give her an advantage, however small.

The motel sat the end of a small side street, in a neighborhood that had obviously seen better days. But, it was the tallest building in the immediate area, no security cameras monitored the hallways, and the clerk at the front desk had barely looked up before taking her money and giving her a key. The latter was especially important given that she hadn't yet had a chance to replenish her wardrobe, so the blue t-shirt she wore now was a size too large and the tattered jeans she'd found had too many holes in them to pass as stylish.

She'd asked the clerk for a room on the second floor, one with a good view of the street and the surrounding structures below, and he had answered the request with the same careless nonchalance he'd shown when she'd arrived.

A day had passed in relative quiet. She'd begun replacing the supplies she'd been forced to leave behind in Ecuador, and even acquired another gun - one taken from a petty thief who'd picked her out as an easy target. As evening had approached, she'd thought about going out again, but she had slept, at best, a handful of hours in the last week, and such a pace was impossible to maintain long-term. Better that she rest while she was reasonably secure. After all, there was no way of knowing when she'd have another chance.

Not bothering to undress or remove her shoes, she stretched out on top of the cheap floral bedspread, freed one of the pillows from beneath the blanket and slid her knife under it. Then, hiding the handgun in the holster at her back, she set the alarm clock to wake her in five hours, and closed her eyes.

Some time later, it was instinct and not the alarm that woke her, followed by the sound of a boot on the carpet, a soft footstep, barely audible.

She stayed still, keeping her eyes closed, her breathing deep and even.

There were more soft footsteps, coming from the direction of the door, but still, she didn't move. If her attacker hadn't acted yet, then chances were that he wanted to kill her up close. His mistake.

Soon, she felt a presence looming over her, heard the quiet rustle of clothing, and beneath her pillow, her hand gripped the hilt of her knife.

She sensed, rather than saw, the tightening of a trigger, and surged up from the bed, kicking out with both legs, sending her attacker into the wall behind him before she rolled backwards across the mattress and landed on the other side, knife raised.

The room was mostly dark now that the sun had set - she had kept the curtains closed, and very little light filtered through them. But she could see enough to be certain that her attacker wasn't Clint; this man was taller, broader…and his movements were slower because of his size. Slow enough, in fact, that he hadn't gotten up yet when she sensed another presence behind her, by the window. She spun, using one leg to sweep a second attacker off their feet. This one was female, judging by the smaller, slimmer build and the distinctly feminine grunt she gave when she landed on the floor.

The woman was faster than her male partner though, and jumped back up a moment later, gun still in hand. A strike to the woman's forearm pushed the gun away, and the shot went wide, shattering the TV screen across the room.

Seizing her advantage, she kicked out again, forcing the gun from the woman's hand as her foot connected with it. She spun and brought down her knife, stabbing it into the woman's thigh, then she drew her gun with her other hand, aimed, and fired. The woman fell with a pained cry, and there was a dull thud as the bullet hit, the muffled kind she had come to associate with body armor. Still, even if the armor assured that it wasn't a fatal wound, she knew that her bullet had stuck the woman center mass - that, combined with the wound to her thigh, would be painful enough to keep her down for now. That was all that mattered, because the man was on his feet again, his gun aimed at her head.

Leaving the knife in the woman's thigh, she rolled once more, pressing low to the floor as three bullets hit the wall behind her. The shots themselves were quiet - her attackers had silencers, though she didn't, and someone had likely heard her own gunshot, not to mention the sound of the impacts from the crossfire. If the police weren't already on their way, they soon would be.

She needed to end this quickly.

Holstering her own gun again, she sprang up onto her hands and did two front flips, the movement carrying her quickly across the room until she reached the man. Flipping upside-down again, she wrapped her legs around the arm that held the gun and twisted backwards. She heard a snap in his wrist and he released the gun. She landed on her feet, caught the gun as it fell, then turned it in her hand and brought it hard across his face.

He stumbled backwards as blood welled from what was most likely a broken nose, and she spun again, kicking out, her boot connecting with the side of his head. He fell to his knees, then crumpled to the floor and didn't move.

She glanced at the gun she'd taken, then quickly released the clip and ejected the remaining bullets, tossing the empty gun aside. She knew better to than to bring it with her. These two were not from the Red Room - their fighting styles had proven that much - but if they were well-supplied, then it was possible that their weapons had, at the very least, some sort of tracking device attached to them.

She was certain she'd made the right call when she opened the door of her room, and light spilled in from the hallway, illuminating the man's prone form. There was a white, stylized eagle on the sleeve of his uniform.

S.H.I.E.L.D.

She'd known that the Red Room might not be the only agency to take an interest in her once the news had spread that she'd gone rogue. There were numerous groups who would want her for the intel she could provide, and others who would want to recruit her for her skills. She would have put S.H.I.E.L.D. in the former category, though, perhaps they knew enough about the Red Room to realize that she had relatively little intel to offer. By and large, her knowledge of Red Room operations was limited to her current mission only. Her superiors had made sure of that. Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. had decided they were better off eliminating her before she had a chance to sell her skills to the highest bidder.

She heard the female agent stirring and immediately sprinted down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time.

The clerk at the front desk had on a pair of old headphones and was bobbing his head to music, but he looked up as she ran past, his eyes widening almost comically as she kicked open the lobby door, the wood splintering beneath her boot.

The second she was outside, bullets filled the air around her and she dove for the sidewalk, rolling behind a parked car. The window shattered just above her head, and she ducked down even more.

She reached behind her back to draw her own gun just as another round of bullets struck the car, but they weren't a high enough caliber to pierce the metal. She quickly turned, raised herself in a crouch, aimed through the car's broken windows, and fired at the building across from her.

The light outside was mostly limited to a few nearby streetlamps, and she could only guess where S.H.I.E.L.D.'s sniper was hidden, but she must have been close to her mark because her shots weren't answered immediately, a sure sign that the sniper had been forced to take cover as well. It didn't last, however - she didn't have any extra clips for the handgun she'd taken from that thief, and already the rounds in it were nearly spent. She needed to conserve as many bullets as possible.

Spitting a curse in her mind, she ducked down again and let her gaze sweep the surrounding street as another round of shots impacted the car. She saw a few people fleeing to avoid the gunfire, but gave them very little consideration; S.H.I.E.L.D. had a reputation for trying to prevent civilian casualties, but hostage situations were almost always messy and drawn-out, and she preferred to avoid them if possible.

A shot struck the car's rearview mirror above her, and she grimaced as small, sharp fragments rained down.

That was when she heard it - it was difficult to discern beneath the gunfire, but it was there, and getting louder: the low rumble of an engine.

Her eyes found the truck a moment later, a large, white box truck with shining headlights that was coming swiftly up the road on her side of the street, traveling west to east. She wasn't sure why the driver hadn't heard the gun shots, but maybe the noise of the engine was loud enough in the cab to conceal them. In the end, it didn't matter, because the S.H.I.E.L.D. sniper had clearly noticed the truck at the same time, and like she'd hoped, he stopped shooting long enough to allow it to pass.

She holstered her gun, waited until the truck was almost directly in front of her, then jumped up, slid across the roof of the car, and launched herself into the air, catching the rungs of a ladder mounted on the side of the truck. The vehicle was moving fast enough that her shoulders took a hard jolt, and her still-healing hand gave a sharp throb. But she grit her teeth and held on, pulling herself flat against the metal, staying low so that the body of the truck hid her from the sniper's view.

It wouldn't take S.H.I.E.L.D. long to figure out where she had gone, but at this point, any distance was better than none.

Two blocks passed, then another and another as she clung to the truck, the wind whipping her short hair around her face, her muscles straining.

Without warning, the truck suddenly veered to the left, and she tightened her grip, thinking for a moment that the truck was taking the turn up ahead. But when the truck kept going, aimed straight for one of the parked cars along the edge of the road, her eyes widened and she pushed herself away from the ladder as hard as she could.

Her momentum carried her to the car's roof before the truck could crush her against it. The truck scraped along the side of the car and then veered away again, but she barely heard the impact; she landed on the car's roof with a crunch, and rolled down the back window, over the trunk and into the street, tumbling a few more feet before she finally came to a stop.

Her vision went hazy for a moment, and she blinked rapidly, trying to clear it; she was laying on the asphalt on her stomach, one arm trapped beneath her. She wanted to move, but her body wasn't obeying her mind's commands, and when she tried to draw in a breath, her chest refused to expand.

She heard rather than saw the truck screeching to a stop and redoubled her efforts to stand, finally pulling in a ragged lungful of air and lurching to her feet. Her legs were barely holding her weight, but she knew that if she didn't keep going, she was dead, and she managed something like a stilted run to the side of the road, this time taking cover behind a van.

Her whole left side throbbed sharply from landing on the car's roof, though her shoulder and ribs seemed to have taken the worst of it. She shifted slightly, grateful not to feel the grinding sensation that usually indicated badly broken bones, though fractures were always a possibility. Pushing the pain aside, she reached for the gun at her back, surprised to find that her leap from the truck hadn't dislodged it, and leaned against the van's back door, pausing when she felt it give a little behind her.

She tried the handle and the door opened with a faint creak; deciding not to question her luck, she slipped inside before closing it again. The van had a long, empty compartment with only the driver and the passenger seat in the front. In the dim light, she could see that a few scattered cables of some sort rested on the floor, but otherwise the van was empty. She crept forwards, staying low, until she reached the seats where she peered over the headrests and dashboard, through the windshield, to the now-idling truck beyond.

The truck had come to a stop at an angle, giving her a clear view of the cab; the driver's side door was open, but the driver was no where to be seen.

She tensed, her eyes scanning the side of the road.

 _There_. A small flash of movement in the rearview mirror on one of the parked cars ahead of her. Quick as it was, it was enough for her to see who had been inside the truck.

Clint.

He'd found her.

He must have been watching her, though for how long she wasn't certain, but he'd obviously seen his chance when S.H.I.E.L.D. had chased her outside of the motel.

There was another flash of movement, and her hand tightened on the gun she held, her eyes narrowing. Clint was making his way along the sidewalk, using the cars as shields, and she didn't have a clear shot. If she missed, she'd have wasted a bullet, and she had too few left to take that chance. And if she didn't miss, she might very well kill him.

She'd have to wait until he got closer.

She had one advantage: he didn't seem to be targeting the van directly, so in all likelihood, he didn't know where she was. He must have lost sight of her long enough that he could only guess where the crash had taken her. He was heading in her direction, however, and she wouldn't have time to hot-wire the van before he reached her.

She ducked down again, then winced as the movement brought the pain of her injuries back to the forefront. But, it wasn't as intense as it had been initially, and pushing it aside once more, she returned to the back of the vehicle. Reaching for the door's handle, she eased it open a fraction, keeping her gun at the ready.

The doors had large windows, offering a view of the sidewalk outside, and the moment a dark shape appeared behind the van, she swung the door open, using it as a battering ram.

It struck Clint with enough force to send him back a few feet. He had his bow in his hands, like she'd known he would, but he hung onto it, even as he stumbled. Keeping most of her body behind the door, she stepped out of the van, raised her gun, and fired over the hinge, aiming for Clint's shoulder.

He dropped before her finger tightened on the trigger, and rolled forward, the bullet streaking over his head. When he came to his feet again, he swung the hard edge of his bow into the door's window. Glass exploded around her, and she had to turn her face away to avoid being hit by it.

Clint took advantage of the distraction, grabbing her wrists with his free hand and yanking them down, over the hinge, forcing the weapon from her grip; it dropped onto the pavement where Clint kicked it, sending it across the asphalt, under the van.

Wrenching her hands free from his hold, she bent her knees and jumped, somersaulting over the door, and landing behind Clint. Ignoring the pain the movement sent through her injured side, she struck out with her elbow, hitting Clint in the back before she spun and kicked, aiming for his head.

But he ducked and turned, grabbing an arrow from his quiver and bringing up his bow in one smooth motion, so when he was facing her, he was already firing.

She heard the arrow cutting through the air and did a back-handspring to avoid it. She landed in a crouch and swept out with one leg, but Clint jumped up, easily avoiding the strike, then reached for his quiver again, ready to draw another arrow.

She surged to her feet and hit the open van door hard with both hands, throwing her weight behind it. It swung closed, and Clint was near enough that the door caught his bow as it went, trapping the top of it in the space between the now-nearly-shut doors.

Face to face with him, she found herself looking directly into his eyes.

"Clint."

It was foolish to try again, she knew. But his name slipped from her lips anyway.

Clint didn't blink. Didn't react. It was as though she hadn't spoken at all.

That was startling somehow, wrong in a way she couldn't explain, and somewhere in her mind, a memory  _stirred_ …

Clint was moving again, releasing his grip on his bow but reaching for his quiver, drawing an arrow and using it like a dagger. She caught his arms just as the arrow descended towards her face. She was barely aware of the sound of the bow clattering to the pavement as the pressure on the door disappeared.

She couldn't stop looking at Clint's eyes, at the hardness in them, so like the hardness she knew to be in her own, and yet, somehow different.

Wrong, she thought again. Something was wrong.

But there was no time to think of it further because the arrow was pressing ever-closer to her face, and she knew that in a contest of sheer muscle, he would win.

She dropped suddenly, pulling Clint to the ground with her. Then, kicking up with her legs, she hit him in the stomach with both feet as she rolled backwards, sending him over her head. He landed on the sidewalk on his back, and the arrow he'd held was now in her hands.

But, just as quickly as he'd fallen, Clint did a kip, jumping upright, and charged.

His fist flew at her head, but she ducked, catching his arm with her free hand, and kicking out with her right leg, her knee connecting with his stomach once more. He doubled over and stumbled back, in the direction of the road this time.

He was just starting forward again when a low rumble echoed down the street, and they both paused, turning toward the source of the noise: a group of military humvees coming swiftly up the road. Straining her ears further, she thought she could make out the sound of a helicopter in the distance as well.

S.H.I.E.L.D. Clearly, they had called for reinforcements this time, perhaps even a full squad.

Clint must have had the same thought because he stepped away from her abruptly and slipped across the street, disappearing into the shadows as though he'd never been there in the first place.

She stared after him for a moment, the arrow still clutched in her hand, her fingers tightening around it unconsciously. Then, turning in the opposite direction, for the second time that night, she took off at a run.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	11. A Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, as always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 11 **

She stood in front of a small mirror, the hem of her shirt raised to examine the bruises covering her left side. Three days after her run-ins with both S.H.I.E.L.D. and with Clint, the injuries were still painful, but healing relatively well. The deepest bruises on her shoulder and ribs had become a particularly vivid mix of purple, red, blue, and black; the lighter bruises scattered over her arms and legs were slowly beginning to turn yellowish-green.

Satisfied with their progress, she lowered the hem of her shirt once more and gave her other injuries a cursory glance. There were scrapes along her arms and elbows as well, an abrasion on her back where her shirt must have ridden up during a fall, a graze across her nose, road-rash along her cheekbone and chin, and a cut just below her hairline. (The still-healing wound on her left hand was tender and inflamed, but thankfully, the stitches had held.)

She'd been lucky, she supposed, that the majority of her injuries were easily concealed by clothing. The cuts and scrapes on her face, however, had drawn some unwanted attention, and made her escape from Venezuela particularly difficult.  In the end, she'd had no choice but to remain out of sight, using sewer and drainage tunnels whenever possible, and in the end, she'd left the city by hiding in the luggage compartment of a bus packed with tourists. From there, she made her way across the Venezuelan boarder to Columbia.

She'd been assigned a mission in Columbia once, just a few years before. She'd played the part of a American gun runner, a part close enough to her own personality that the Red Room hadn't felt any additional modifications were necessary. She couldn't recall much from that mission beyond those few details, but she _did_ remember an arms dealer she'd done business with - Diego.

She'd decided to risk contacting him. Or at least, _trying_ to contact him. She'd had no guarantee that he was even still alive - the arms business was a hazardous one - and she'd known that even if she could find him, it was dangerous to utilize anyone who'd had contact with the Red Room, no matter how distant. But, acquiring weapons second-hand had its own problems, such as the ammunition shortage she'd encountered in her recent skirmishes. If she had to choose between the two, she preferred to be well-armed when the next attack came.

So, she'd gone about collecting the funds she would need, stealing from anyone who seemed likely to being carrying significant amounts of cash, and then, she'd begun making very quiet inquiries.

Diego, as it turned out, was indeed still alive and in business, and in fact, he had even remembered her, something which had been almost a novelty. She'd never been allowed any additional contact with the people she'd met on her missions.

Diego had quickly agreed to set her up with any equipment she needed and demanded only a reasonable price in return. In the end, she'd walked away with three new combat knives, two sharpening stones, a Ruger SP101, extra ammo, a pair of Glock 26s she intended to hang onto, several magazines, cleaning and maintenance kits, holsters, and a cartridge belt she could hide beneath her shirt. She'd been tempted to buy more - Diego had a top-of-the-line NSV machine gun that she had spent a few minutes inspecting simply because she could - but she needed weapons that were easy to carry and conceal, and ultimately, practicality had won out.

Her new arsenal in-tow, she'd stowed aboard a private plane bound for Porto Alegre, Brazil, and once there, she'd checked into a small hostel that had the option of a private room in exchange for a larger fee.

The windowless room was painted a bland beige and held only a bed, a small side table, and a dresser with a mirror, but it was adequate enough for her needs. The other guests at the hostel seemed content to keep to themselves and she'd done the same, leaving her room only when necessary. S.H.I.E.L.D., she knew, was still searching for her, as was the Red Room. It was only a matter of time before they found her again. But, at the very least, she would now be better prepared.

Stepping away from the battered dresser and the mirror hanging above it, she walked the short distance to the bed and eyed the equipment she had laid out earlier. Diego hadn't cheated her - every weapon was in fine condition. Nonetheless, she planned to inspect and clean each piece.

Sitting on the bed, she picked up one of the Glocks and enjoyed the weight and balance of it before she set about disassembling it, moving automatically through the familiar motions…motions that were ingrained, instinctive.

She couldn't remember when she first learned them. How old had she been when a gun had first been placed in her hand?

She didn't know. Perhaps it didn't matter.

For better or worse, the Red Room had made her what she was, and from the moment she'd walked away, she'd intended to put her training to good use.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had been right to fear that she would go into business for herself, since there was, after all, a considerable demand for people with her particular skill set. The money she could earn would allow for excellent equipment, numerous safe houses, and more freedom than she'd ever experienced before. Of course, to have such a future, she would need to live long enough for the Red Room's attention to be diverted by other, more pressing issues. Even then, she would never really be safe, but such a situation would offer, at least, a measure of security. It was the best she could hope for.

But Clint…Clint was a complication she had not expected.

Almost against her will her gaze drifted to the arrow sitting on the bedside table, the arrow she'd taken from him. Initially, after the fight, she'd kept it simply because all of her other weapons had been lost and it would have been foolish to discard it.

Now, she had no need for it.

She'd kept it anyway.

Looking down once more, she began reassembling the Glock, inserting the barrel back into the slide, snapping the spring and guide rod back into place, and reattaching the slide to the base. Then, setting the cleaned gun aside, she reached for the other Glock. She dropped the magazine, ensured that the chamber was empty, and began cleaning that gun as well.

But, inevitably, she found her eyes drawn back to the arrow.

In the theater of her mind, she had replayed both of her fights with Clint several times. Part of it was habit. She had been trained to analyze every fight she participated in. But she could not deny that there was another reason as well.

The more she considered their encounters, the more a sense of _wrongness_ grew. It was hard to describe the feeling precisely. It was simply…instinct. She knew, without a doubt, that something was not as it should be.

Almost unconsciously, she started sifting through her memories of the fights once again, judging her own reactions, critiquing her movements, studying Clint's technique, his speed and accuracy, examining the hard lines of his face…

Her hands stilled on the Glock.

Red Room operatives were taught to read the non-verbal cues that sometimes said more than words. Likewise, they were trained to avoid giving cues of their own, even - especially - during a fight. But such training could only do so much; minute facial expressions were involuntary.

She had seen proof of that often enough, even in the Red Room itself. Her sparring partners couldn't quite hide the triumphant look in their eyes when they got the better of her, or their frustration when she got the better of _them_. She'd seen jaws tight with determination, eyes widened in surprise or narrowed in anger. The faces had blurred together, lost to time and the Red Room's manipulation, but somehow, the expressions had remained.

Clint…

There'd been no hesitation - his strikes were strong, precise, dangerous. He hadn't been holding back. But there'd been nothing more than that.

No determination to carry out his orders.

No triumph when he'd almost killed her.

No frustration when she'd eluded him.

Just the hard, unyielding lines of his face and empty eyes.

Something surfaced slowly in her memory…it was vague, and hazy, and barely more than a shadow, but then, that was all most of her memories were.

A vent. A boy. And those same empty eyes.

They hadn't always been empty.

" _You can't fight them."_

" _I can try."_

Had he tried? Had he fought them and failed?

What had they done to him?

It shouldn't have mattered. She was…she was oddly attached to him, yes, but he had tried twice to kill her, and he would undoubtedly try again. Compassion, hesitation, _attachment_ …they were synonymous with weakness. Sparing his life, even considering it, defied all that the Red Room had taught her.

But she was no longer in the Red Room.

She was as free from them as she would ever be…free, in part, because of the conversations she'd had with a boy she barely remembered. And somehow, his resolve to escape had become her own.

For a long moment, she stared at the disassembled gun in her hands, then she set it on the bed and reached for the arrow on the nightstand, her fingers curling around it.

She knew what she had to do.

* * *

Attracting S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attention hadn't been particularly difficult.

She needed only to make an appearance on security camera footage in downtown Porto Alegre, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had descended on the area shortly afterwards. From there, locating their base of operations hadn't been much of a challenge; they were expecting to be the hunter and not the hunted, and so they had taken only the most basic measures to conceal their presence.

They had set up their command center in a rundown warehouse that had once belonged to a shipping company. An area in the middle of the floor had been cleared to make way for tables and manned computer stations, but rows of large metal shelves stacked with boxes ringed the walls. She had situated herself behind two large stacks of those empty boxes, a position that offered a perfect, unobstructed view of operation headquarters, and dressed in all black, she blended easily into the shadows.

A detachment of about twenty men had been assigned to the warehouse. Half a dozen were technicians, a few of which seemed to be focused purely on administration, and the rest were clearly security. She'd quickly identified those that seemed to be in command positions, but the agent-in-charge interested her especially. He was a middle-aged man with short brown hair, a high forehead, and blue eyes. He had the unassuming look and soft-spoken mannerisms she'd learned to associate with men who were truly dangerous. She wondered just how high up he was in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s chain of command.

His name, she had learned, was Coulson.

"Berkowitz, status in sector six?" he was asking, two fingers touching the radio at his ear.

The answer clearly didn't please him, because he frowned.

"Check again," he ordered and broke the connection.

"Sir," one of the technicians interjected, "Brazilian border security just sent out an alert. They've spotted a woman trying to cross over into Uruguay. She's a possible match for the target's description."

Coulson's eyes narrowed. "Tell Bravo Team to investigate, but cautiously. We lose her this time and she'll go even deeper underground. She won't be easy to find."

"Which is why I thought I'd save you the trouble."

She hadn't yet moved into the open, but all eyes in the command center turned in her direction nonetheless.

Knowing the risk she had taken by revealing her position, her hands were poised to draw the Glocks holstered at her thighs, for all the good they would do if the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents opened fire. The empty boxes concealed her from view, but the decaying cardboard would hardly stop a barrage of bullets.

For a moment, as the agents in the room rapidly drew their weapons, that barrage seemed inevitable, but Coulson barked a quick command: "Hold your fire!"

He had drawn his sidearm along with the rest, and like them, he stood at the ready, but his eyes were sweeping over his agents as though ensuring that his order had been obeyed.

Apparently satisfied, Coulson's gaze turned back to her. "Show yourself."

She did so, stepping out from behind the shelves and boxes. She did not raise her arms; she was not surrendering. She was, however, careful not to make any sudden movements that might be considered threatening. Her Glocks remained holstered as well, but their weight was reassuring, as was the feeling of the knives strapped beneath her sleeves, and the Ruger hidden at her back. If S.H.I.E.L.D. rejected her proposal and turned on her instead, she intended to take as many of their agents with her as she could.

As if somehow sensing her thoughts, the agents in the room seemed to bristle, but Coulson, for his part, simply studied her with narrowed eyes.

At last, he lowered his weapon and returned it to its holster, tucking it beneath his suit jacket with a practiced flick of his wrist. "You have a flare for the dramatic, I'll give you that," he said mildly. "But I assume you're not here to commit suicide by S.H.I.E.L.D., so what is it that you want?"

His words surprised her...she hadn't expected that S.H.I.E.L.D. would be so willing to hear her out. She did not intend to waste the opportunity.

"I have an offer for you."

"And that is?"

"Take me off your hit list, and I can give you two members of the Red Room."

Coulson's eyebrows rose faintly. "Two?" He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Would you be one of those two? Do you want to defect?"

The idea of defection almost made her grit her teeth; she knew, with absolute certainty, that the Red Room deserved only her hatred. But, the Red Room's mantra of loyalty, duty, and obedience had done its work long ago, and it seemed that some small part of her mind would forever be held under its sway.

It was a part, however, that she had learned to ignore.

"Yes," she answered simply, "I do."

"And the other member of the Red Room…?"

"Someone I know. The Red Room sent him to kill me after I left."

"But he's like you? He wants out?"

"He did once."

"Once? He doesn't now?"

She did not wish to explain her history with Clint - what little she remembered of it - nor did she have to, not yet, not until she was certain that S.H.I.E.L.D. would agree to her terms.

"It's complicated," she said simply.

Coulson's lips quirked faintly. "Since this is the Red Room we're talking about, I'm not surprised."

There was a long pause; she got the distinct impression that Coulson was weighing the sincerity of her words.

The silence was broken when one of the other agents stepped closer to Coulson. He was young and relatively short with dark hair, and there was an edge of anger to his movements that caught her attention. Helowered his weapon as he approached Coulson, but his fingers gripped the gun tightly as he held it at his side.

"Sir," he began, "with all due respect, you can't honestly be considering this! Dawson and Fernandez won't be back in action for _months_ because of her."

He could only be talking about the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents she had fought at the motel, the man and woman she had injured. She wondered if this was the sniper who had tried to cut off her escape. Perhaps he wanted revenge for his teammates.

"True," Coulson agreed, "but she could have killed them. She didn't."

That was accurate enough, though she hadn't been particularly concerned with sparing their lives either. She didn't plan to correct the assumption.

"She's probably been watching us for hours as well," Coulson added.  "She's had ample opportunity to kill every person here if that was her intention."

"But the risks-"

"If she's telling the truth, they might just be worth it."

"Sir-"

"That's enough, Agent Spence."

Coulson hadn't raised his voice, but it rang with finality nonetheless, and the young agent clearly heard it.

His jaw clenched, but he offered a quiet "Yes, sir," and stepped away.

Coulson turned his attention back to her once more. "I don't have the authority to call off the hit myself. I'll have to discuss your offer with my superiors." He gave her a small smile. "I'll have to ask you to not to leave in the meantime, you understand, and I'll also have to ask you to surrender your weapons."

It was a test, she knew. He wanted to see just how much she was willing to gamble. If she refused, they would have a reason to doubt her. If she agreed, it would be a gesture of good faith.

She gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Okafor, Cheng," Coulson said, waving two security personnel forward.

She had been subject to far less professional searches in the past, but all the same, she watched darkly as they confiscated first her Glocks and then her knives and the Ruger. It wasn't that she was afraid. Even stripped of her weapons, she was hardly defenseless. If the need arose, she could still kill a number of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s operatives before they opened fire. But S.H.I.E.L.D. did indeed have more control over the situation this way, and that, she knew, had been Coulson's intention.

Nonetheless, when the two men moved to cuff her, Coulson stopped them - perhaps that was a good faith gesture of his own.

Instead, he pulled out a chair from one of the nearby tables. "Please, have a seat."

Her eyes narrowed faintly, but she did as he asked. She wasn't surprised when the two security personnel followed, taking up positions on each side of her, and she watched as the other members of the security force positioned themselves strategically around the room as well. Clearly, they were taking no chances.

"Keep your hands where we can see them," the guard on her right ordered.

Seeing no point in antagonizing him, she placed her hands on the table top, palms down.

Coulson was apparently satisfied with this arrangement because he left a moment later, heading for the warehouse's exit, his hand at his ear piece again, speaking too low for her to hear. Presumably, he was contacting his superiors.

There was a brief moment of tension after his departure, but gradually, activity resumed around her. Those not assigned to the security detail holstered their weapons and continued about their business; she heard one of the technicians ordering the search teams to stand down, while others were already beginning to organize for their withdrawal. But, every so often, one of them would turn to observe her in a manner that was both wary and curious.

She stared back neutrally and waited.

Her wait proved to be fairly long. She wasn't certain if that was a promising sign or a negative one.

When Coulson finally returned, he sat down across from her, smoothing his tie with his fingers before folding his hands on the table.

She watched him expectantly.

"Directory Fury has agreed to suspend the hit."

Suspend, not cancel. It was a small distinction but an important one, and undoubtedly, it was a deliberate one as well. A warning, perhaps?

"There are, of course, some conditions," Coulson continued. "One, you will divulge any and all intel you possess concerning the Red Room. Two, you will submit to any measures deemed necessary to ensure the safety of both S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel and civilians. And three, you will obey the orders issued to you while we are engaged in joint operations."

"Very well," she agreed, knowing that such terms weren't unreasonable.

Apparently pleased by her acceptance, the senior agent leaned back in his seat to consider her once more.

"So, your…Red Room acquaintance. Do you have a way to contact him?"

"In a manner of speaking. He's been tracking me. He's found me twice so far."

Coulson nodded and offered an enigmatic smile. "Then we'll simply have to make sure that he finds you again, won't we?"

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	12. Bait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, as always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 12 **

Something cold brushed against the skin of her back. The pungent scent of disinfectant reached her nostrils just a moment before she heard a soft electronic whine, and there was a sharp, quick pain near the middle of her spine.

She offered no visible reaction to any of it, simply waited until the medical technician had finished pressing a small bandage over the area, then slipped her shirt back over her head without a word. But she was keenly aware of the faint ache between her shoulder blades, courtesy of the tracking device now embedded there.

A tracking device.

She saw the logic of it - S.H.I.E.L.D. needed a way to follow her movements at a distance without alerting Clint to their presence. That was precisely why she had agreed to it. But she was hardly naïve. S.H.I.E.L.D. did not trust her, and the device was, in effect, an electronic leash.

She had been led to an office at the back of the warehouse for the procedure, and was seated in a chair, facing a battered desk. The medical technician had been allowed to be alone with her in the room, though she had not failed to notice the number of security personnel stationed just outside.

She remained silent as the medical technician gathered his supplies and left; Coulson appeared a moment later.

"I'm sorry that this is necessary," he began, closing the door of the office behind him. He did indeed appear to be sorry, though whether or not he was sincere was harder to determine. "But I must warn you that any attempt to remove the device without prior authorization will result in the reinstatement of your termination order."

She didn't bother to respond to that - she had assumed as much.

"The device will be removed when our business here is finished," Coulson added.

She wondered if that were really true. S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to portray themselves as the "white knights" of the covert world, but they were hardly above betrayal. She trusted them as little as they trusted her, perhaps less. But they were one of the few organizations capable of standing against the Red Room, and they were the only possible means she had of sparing Clint's life.

She had briefly considered other alternatives, such as trying to detain Clint herself, but she lacked the resources necessary to hold anyone long-term, and even if she managed to subdue him, it would be impossible for her to hold him indefinitely. Either he would find a way to escape and attack her, or the Red Room would come in search of its missing operative with even more force than before.

There was also Clint's mind to consider. If her instincts were correct, and his mind _had_ been modified in some way, she had no way of combating such mental programming. S.H.I.E.L.D., however, might be able to mitigate the effects of whatever the Red Room had done. At the very least, if her partnership with S.H.I.E.L.D. was successful, Clint would be out the Red Room's hands for the foreseeable future. That could only ever be an improvement.

For that reason alone, she would give S.H.I.E.L.D. her compliance. For now.

Coulson walked around the desk and sat down across from her, taking an empty office chair for himself. In his suit, seated as he was, he looked like a simple bureaucrat and nothing more. Undoubtedly, that was the image he hoped to project.

He tossed a manila folder onto the desk and opened it, removing a photograph and pushing it towards her. The picture was somewhat grainy, but after a moment she recognized it as having been taken during her last fight with Clint. One of the nearby buildings must have been equipped with a security camera.

"This is the operative you've told us about?" Coulson asked.

"Yes."

"Do you know his name?"

She hesitated. Clint was a memory she'd hidden away for years, and sharing what little she knew of him, especially with someone she had no reason to trust, was more than enough to give her pause. But S.H.I.E.L.D. would learn the truth one way or another, and if their alliance were to survive, it was best that they learned it from her.

"Clint," she said at last. "His name is Clint."

Coulson frowned at that, and she could guess his thoughts.

"Clint" was hardly a Russian name. But, for all its fervent patriotism, the Red Room sometimes searched for candidates for its program outside of Russian soil; she even vaguely recalled a sparring partner who had looked to be of African descent. In Clint's case, in every memory she had of him, he had spoken English with an American accent. Of course, that was easily feigned, but somehow, she believed that Clint's accent had been genuine.

Coulson looked down to study Clint's picture for a moment, a thoughtful frown still marking his features. "I take it that he's not likely to be cooperative."

"No," she agreed, "he won't be."

"Will he be working alone?"

"As far as I know. I've seen no one else with him, though he may have a handler nearby."

"Does he have a way to call for reinforcements?"

"It's possible, but not likely. The Red Room prefers to keep a low profile, so large teams aren't often used."

Coulson nodded, and she could already see him running through possible tactical scenarios in his mind. "And you believe that posing as a tourist is the best way draw him out?"

"Yes." She'd suggested that scenario immediately after Coulson had agreed that she would serve as the lure. "Foreign tourists are common enough here, and they'll make good cover. It's what I might have done next, regardless." She didn't add that she had, essentially, been hiding among them already before she had decided to approach S.H.I.E.L.D.

"We can provide you with whatever you might need," Coulson assured. "Money, documents-"

"No," she cut him off. "I have no way of knowing what the Red Room has been monitoring, and unexplained funding might make them suspicious."

That was true, and it was a logical precaution, but she was also reluctant to allow S.H.I.E.L.D. any more control than absolutely necessary.

Coulson seem to sense her thoughts because his eyes narrowed faintly at the refusal, but he conceded the point.

His gaze fell to Clint's picture once more, then returned to her.

"Why are you doing this? Who is he to you?"

She could not keep her own gaze from drifting to the photograph as well. It had been taken from a distance, too far away to offer a good view of Clint's eyes, but she could see them in her mind all the same.

"I owe him a debt."

"A debt," Coulson repeated.

"He said we could fight them."

It sounded so very simple, she knew. Almost laughably so. But, when she looked up at last, Coulson was watching her with something like understanding. She wondered suddenly just how much he knew about the inner workings of the Red Room.

In any case, he didn't seem inclined to press her for more information - at least, not yet. She assumed that, eventually, S.H.I.E.L.D. would expect a full debriefing. But, for now, he seemed satisfied with what little she had divulged.

Pushing his chair back from the desk, Coulson stood and walked to the door of the office, opening it, and motioning to someone outside. Footsteps followed, and a moment later, Coulson reappeared, carrying a small container. She recognized the grip of one of her Glocks sticking up over the rim, and straightened in her chair as the agent approached. He set the container in front of her, and sensing the implicit permission in the action, she reached for her weapons and began checking them over to make sure they had not been tampered with. Coulson could probably guess what she was doing, but offered no objection as she worked.

"We'll need a name to call you by," he said finally, almost casually.

She paused.

For a moment, she considered giving him a false one; it would have been simple enough. Or perhaps she could offer him a codename. Her handlers had christened her "Black Widow," since she was often called upon to seduce her targets before she killed them. She rather liked that name. It was accurate if nothing else.

But it was another name that flitted through her consciousness instead, the one she had hidden away in her mind so carefully that even the Red Room had not been able to strip the memory from her.

_Natalia Alinova Romanova_.

She had no real reason to hide that name now. Chances were that S.H.I.E.L.D. would learn it eventually - considering that she'd been their target before she'd become their tentative ally, perhaps they knew it already. But she was reluctant to give it all the same, and she was equally hesitant to use it. It was the name of the little girl she had once been, the name of the woman she could never become.

She ran through a list of other possible names in her mind, names she recalled from missions, names she had heard or learned elsewhere, considering and rejecting each one, until her eyes found the picture on the desk once more. Clint's picture.

"Natasha," she said, the name falling from her lips almost without thought. But it felt right. Familiar. "Romanoff," she added after a moment, and that too seemed fitting. It was still reflective of the name that might have been hers. Altered, yes, Americanized, but since Clint's accent had been American, it seemed a fitting enough tribute.

If Coulson suspected that the name was anything more to her than an alias, he didn't comment on it.

She completed the inspection of her weapons, then stood and began replacing them in their sheaths and holsters. When that was finished, Coulson led her from the office and back into the warehouse. The agents had done a great deal of work while she'd been otherwise occupied - nearly all traces of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s presence had been erased, save for a few remaining cases of equipment that were clearly awaiting transport.

They reached an exterior door, and Coulson paused, withdrawing something small from his pocket. When he opened his palm, she recognized it as a comm device.

"We'll be following your progress, of course, but should you need to contact us, this should be untraceable. All the same, we suggest you use it only as a last resort."

She took it from him, slipping it beneath the left sleeve of her shirt and hooking it to the sheath hidden there.

"Good luck," Coulson added.

She blinked at the courtesy, surprised that he had even bothered to offer it, but she nodded cautiously in return. And with that, Natasha Romanoff left the warehouse and stepped into the glare of the Brazilian sun.

* * *

She stood near the edge of a precipice, overlooking a massive ravine where white water thundered over towering cliffs into the basin below. The spray of the water was cool on the wind; she closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy it for a moment, feeling small droplets land on her upturned face.

Opening her eyes once again, she let her gaze sweep the gorge. Iguazu Falls was undeniably impressive; jagged, moss-covered rocks and lush, green vegetation ringed the valley, and the Falls themselves shown in the afternoon sun, occasionally sending rainbows stretching out over the surrounding jungle.

It was tempting to take a closer look - perhaps on the boat that ferried tourists to the bottom of the Falls - but she was all too aware that the roar of the water might drown out the sound of an approaching attacker. She thought it unlikely that Clint would attempt to kill her while she stood in the middle of a crowd, though she could not entirely rule out the possibility.

Pushing herself away from the railing she had been leaning against, she started back up the large, metal walkway. Other tourists milled around her, many holding cameras or posing for pictures. A little boy ran past her, eager to reach the Falls, prompting an exasperated call from his mother, and a group of Chinese tourists were holding up a map and attempting to ask for directions in halting, uncertain Spanish.

Such scenes had become familiar to her over the last week; she'd begun her own "travels" in Rio de Janeiro, spending several days in the city itself, and visiting the Christ the Redeemer statue which stood atop a mountain peak, overlooking the city with its arms out-stretched, its neck slightly bent, its head tilted downward as though watching the goings-on of the world below.

She'd been schooled in the basic tenets of Christianity and other common world religions (though her trainers had, of course. emphasized the irrationality of such beliefs). She saw no reason to embrace any religion herself and did not ever imagine that changing, but she had lingered at the statue nonetheless, staring up at it until the sun had started to sink behind the horizon.

Iguaza Falls had been the logical choice for a next stop; it wasn't terribly far from Rio de Janerio, and the steady stream of visitors provided ample cover. She had dressed to blend in with them, choosing a sleeveless top and a floral skirt that fell just below her knees. It was not a style she preferred, but the skirt was loose enough to accommodate her Glocks and thigh holsters beneath it. She had worn boots that came to her mid-calf, and had hidden her largest knife there as well as extra clips for her Glocks. Her Ruger and other knives she'd had to relegate to the cross-body bag she carried because the day was warm, and she didn't want to draw attention by wearing the layers and long sleeves necessary to conceal the additional weapons. She had one consolation, at least - the abrasions marking the skin of her face and arms had healed to the point that they were easily hidden by makeup, which had made it far easier to move about without attracting curious stares.

She paused on the walkway to allow a young couple to pass by, and then turned onto a lesser-used path, one that led away from the Falls and deeper into the jungle. It wasn't entirely abandoned; a small group of hikers were making their way down the trail and she followed them at a careful distance. If she were correct in assuming that Clint did not plan to attack her in public, then she needed to ensure that she was isolated enough to lure him into the open without making it seem as though she were doing so intentionally. She had made a point to do the same in every location she had visited, but either Clint had yet to track her down, or the Red Room was suspicious of her tactics, because there had been no sign of him. She had seen nothing of S.H.I.E.L.D. either, though she had no doubt that they were somewhere nearby.

She let her eyes scan the terrain as she walked. Tall trees curved over the winding pathway, their bark an exotic mix of brown and white. Lush vegetation grew up around the trunks; she had never before seen such a deep, vibrant green. Overhead, monkeys chattered, birds called, and the buzz of insects added to the cacophony, competing with the increasingly-muted sounds of the Falls in the distance.

Her eyes narrowed faintly.

The Red Room had trained her for combat in numerous climates, but she had never enjoyed fighting in tropical forests like this one. Jungles offered both too much cover and not enough; the trees and undergrowth ensured that there was ample camouflage, but that same foliage provided little real protection in a cross-fire. She much preferred the brick and steel, asphalt and concrete of urban warfare.

She paused when she heard rustling in the leaves nearby. An instant later, a small mammal appeared on the trail. It reminded her faintly of a raccoon, but its body was far more slender, and its fur was made up of various shades of brown. Its nose twitched as it stared at her, then, with a quick flick of its striped tail, it disappeared back into the underbrush. Overhead, a toucan stopped on a low branch, squawking indignantly.

She could not say precisely what warned her in that moment, but sudden awareness crept up her spine and she dove to the ground, rolling out of the way just in time to feel an arrow skim across the top of her left shoulder. The resulting cut was shallow, but had she still been standing, she had no doubt the arrow would have pierced her heart. She came up with her Glocks drawn and spun around, her eyes immediately searching the trees.

The toucan, startled by the movement, took off in surprise, and numerous other birds followed its flight from the trees, briefly filling the air with the sound of beating wings. But, the noise died away quickly and she heard only the rustle of branches waving with the wind.

Then she saw it - the smallest glimpse of black among the green, visible only because a strong breeze had parted the nearby leaves. She raised her Glocks and fired, aiming so that she missed by a bare margin. The birds startled again, but when she glanced down the path, the hikers ahead of her had disappeared around a far-off bend, apparently unaware of the noise. Perhaps the combined din of the jungle and the Falls had been enough to mask the sound of the gunshots.

She spun around again to see that Clint had dropped from his perch, landing in a graceful crouch. He had another arrow nocked a heartbeat later, and she had no choice but to leap away again, this time into the brush, landing in a crouch of her own

The arrow embed itself in the trunk of one of the trees behind her.

Her first instinct was to stay and fight Clint here, but for the moment, he had the advantage of surprise and there was little chance that she could disable him without causing him serious harm...if she could disable him at all, she admitted silently, rolling away as an arrow struck the soil in the exact spot she had been sitting just a split second earlier.

Jumping to her feet, she took off into the jungle at a run.

It was not ideal; the undergrowth was so thick that she could barely see the forest floor, and as she had no time for subtlety, she was leaving an easy-to-follow swath of trampled vegetation in her wake. The soil itself was rain-soaked, and her boots sunk into the soft ground with every step. She grit her teeth as leaves and branches slapped against her face and arms; she felt one low branch catch her skirt, and kept going, uncaring when the fabric ripped. A fallen tree blocked her path and she vaulted over it, refusing to slow her pace.

Another arrow streaked past her, barely missing her shoulder and striking a tree to her right.

The arrow exploded a second later, sending bits of shattered bark and shredded leaves into the air like shrapnel.

The force of the blast blew her back several feet, sending her into one of the trees behind her, the impact forcing the air from her lungs. She fell to the ground, momentarily stunned, her ears and head ringing. She shook her head, trying to clear it, and staggered upright, feeling a trickle of blood dripping down her temple.

Raising her Glocks, she fired blindly in the direction the arrow had come from, hoping that it would be enough to send Clint searching for cover of his own. She needed to put some distance between them, particularly if Clint was armed with additional explosives and ordinance. A round in one of her guns spent, she turned and ran again, the world spinning dangerously around her, but she had no choice except to keep moving. Her first shots might not have been overheard, but chances were that the explosion had not gone unnoticed, and neither had her return fire. Iguazu National Park was vast, but there was no way of knowing how long it would take for Park officials to be alerted to the trouble.

She hadn't gotten far when pain erupted in her right leg; she looked down to see an arrow sticking through her calf. Her knee nearly buckled but she forced herself to keep moving in spite of it, limping heavily; retrieving an extra clip from her boot, she reloaded and turned to fire behind her again.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed a small outcropping of jagged rocks and ducked down behind them, holstering one Glock and bending to examine her injury. The shot was clean through the muscle and wasn't bleeding a great deal; she felt no numbness and found that she had no trouble moving her toes or ankle. Satisfied that no significant damage had been done, she reached down and grasped the end of the arrow. Had it been a wooden shaft, she might have tried to break it before removing it, but carbon fiber didn't allow for that. So, drawing a deep breath, she began to push it the rest of the way through her leg, biting back the cry that tried to build in her throat. New rivulets of red trailed down her skin, but she pulled the arrow free with a ragged gasp and tossed it aside, reaching for her Glock once more.

A moment later, another explosion sent her diving down to the forest floor, dodging a sudden shower of dirt and broken rock. Rolling away and ignoring the increased ringing in her ears, she struggled to her feet again and darted back into the thick underbrush.

Her injured leg screamed with every step, and her head throbbed, but she ignored both and reached for the comm link she had hidden on the strap of the watch fastened around her left wrist.

She activated it with a flick of her thumb. "I need assistance. Now."

She didn't bother to wait for them to respond, just shut off the link and ducked behind a large tree as another arrow streaked past her. This one, at least, did not explode, but it had come close enough that she felt the breeze from it all the same. Raising her Glocks yet again, she fired from behind the tree. The ground in this area of the jungle was slightly elevated from the surrounding terrain, offering her something of an advantage. She watched as Clint dropped and rolled, coming up behind a tree much like her own, but his broader frame was less easily concealed by the relatively slender trunk. He moved again, spinning and coming up with another arrow drawn.

The strange shape of the arrowhead sent her running once more, but she wasn't quick enough. The resulting explosion knocked her off her feet, and she could not suppress a shout as her wounded leg struck the ground. She had landed on her stomach, and gritting her teeth, she rolled over onto her back and brought up both of her Glocks, unsurprised to see that Clint had yet another arrow aimed at her.

For an instant, time seemed to slow. Her fingers tightened on the triggers, though she did not want to kill Clint, even as she found herself staring down the shaft of the arrow and into his empty eyes. But, before Clint could loose the string, something small streaked through air, embedding itself in his neck.

He blinked, once, twice, then frowned faintly as his muscles went abruptly lax and he crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

She stared as a squad of heavily armed S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel seemed to materialize out of the foliage. She scowled - her ears were still ringing, but nonetheless, she should have been have been aware of their approach. Then again, Clint had not seemed to be aware of them either.

Perhaps she should simply be grateful for their apparent stealth.

She let her arms - and the Glocks she held - drop, her fingers easing away from the triggers.

Coulson stepped from behind the group, looking out of place in the charcoal gray suit he wore.

"I'm sorry for the delay. It became necessary to lock down this section of the park."

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent looked her over with a critical eye, clearly making note of the blood now staining both her temple and her calf, then looked over to Clint as well. He had not escaped their fight unscathed. Blood was flowing down his left arm from a wound on his bicep, and more red glistened from a wound near his right hip.

"Agent Spence," Coulson called.

A moment later, the dark-haired sniper she remembered from the warehouse stepped forward. He was holding what she assumed was a dart gun; he glared at her briefly, then turned to Coulson. "Yes, sir?"

"Alert the infirmary that we have wounded." He paused, glancing around at the destruction now littering the forest. "And remind me to send our apologies to the World Heritage Committee," he added.

Spence nodded, giving her one last dark look before he touched the radio at his ear and turned away.

One of the other agents, whom she soon identified as a field medic, set about wrapping her leg, and she found herself watching as another medic began attending to Clint.

Half an hour later, they were aboard a small aircraft, sitting in the aft compartment, surrounded by a wary-looking tactical team.

Clint was still unconscious, but he had been strapped tightly to a gurney, a sight that seemed familiar in a way she could not explain. Forcing back the strange sense of déjà vu, she turned her eyes to the cockpit, staring through the windshield as the Brazilian jungle gradually faded into the distance.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The World Heritage Committee is an international body that names "World Heritage Sites," places which are offered protection under Article 53 of the Geneva Convention. Iguazu National Park (located partially in Brazil and partially in Argentina) was named a World Heritage Site in 1984 by UNESCO, the "United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization."
> 
> I've never been to Iguazu National Park myself, but now, after researching it, I would really love to go there, lol.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	13. Past. Present.  Future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A possible trigger warning in this chapter for in-depth discussion of head injuries. There's nothing too graphic, but if you're sensitive to this topic, please read with care.
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.

** Chapter 13 **

She was seated in a small, windowless conference room, her injured leg elevated by the footrest on the wheelchair she had been given. The ache in her calf wasn't particularly bad - S.H.I.E.L.D.'s doctors had numbed the area before seeing to the wound, and whatever they had used had yet to wear off. For the moment, the steady throb at her temple was more insistent, but she'd refused the painkillers the doctors had offered, preferring the pain to the influence of the drugs themselves.

Coulson had appeared as soon as the doctors had finished treating her, and the interview had been a lengthy one. It was only the first of what she knew would be an even longer interrogation process, though Coulson had not called it such. Undoubtedly, the desire to preserve an atmosphere of cooperation was the reason that she had been assigned to a conference room instead of a holding cell, and the reason why, as promised, the tracking device had been removed from her back.

Nonetheless, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hospitality extended only so far. She had not failed to notice that the door required an access code, and that a sizeable security detail was stationed just outside. The fact that she was currently several thousand feet above solid ground was equally hard to miss. The Helicarrier, as Coulson had called it, was, in essence, a flying fortress. Even if she managed to elude the security detail, escaping from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mobile headquarters would not be easy.

For the moment, she saw no reason to try. S.H.I.E.L.D. had honored their part of the agreement and she had done the same. Whether or not that would continue was another matter, but it was, at least, more than she might have expected from the Red Room.

Leaning back in the wheelchair, she allowed her gaze to sweep her surroundings once more. The conference room was the same dark, metallic gray as the rest of the Helicarrier, and it lacked any sort of decoration save a large, electronic screen mounted on one wall and a stylized eagle emblem opposite that. An oval-shaped table dominated the space, offering seating for six, and its sleek, black finish reflected the light shining from the ceiling above. A glass of water sat on the table in front of her, along with an empty plate; Coulson had ordered a meal brought for her before he'd left to present his report to his superiors a few hours earlier.

As if summoned by her thoughts, she heard the door slide open behind her and looked up to see Coulson enter. He held a thick manila folder in one hand, and wore the expression he seemed to favor most: eyebrows faintly raised, the corners of his lips turned up in a small, polite smile. As masks went it was a good one, neither overly aggressive or excessively friendly, and in this case, it was perfectly able to conceal the nature of the news he brought. Were his superiors satisfied with their arrangement thus far, or did they feel that they had been shorted in the bargain?

Coulson had clearly anticipated her questions.

"I get the impression that you aren't one for pleasantries," he began, moving to sit across from her, "so I won't bother with them. At this point, there's very little you've told us about the Red Room that we weren't already aware of, but we understand that they go to great lengths to maintain their secrecy, so it's not unexpected."

"I didn't promise you intel, I promised you operatives," she pointed out evenly.

"Which you delivered," Coulson agreed. "The hit will remain suspended indefinitely, or until such time that it becomes necessary to reassess our relationship."

It was not quite a guarantee of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s good will, but it was better than she might have expected, particularly this early on. S.H.I.E.L.D. had undoubtedly considered the possibility that she had been sent to them as a mole, or perhaps an assassin - she had, rather pointedly, not yet been introduced to anyone that outranked Coulson himself.

"And what exactly will our relationship be?" she asked.

"That's actually one of things we need to discuss next."

"One of them?" she repeated.

He nodded and opened the folder he held, removing a piece of paper and sliding it across the table for her inspection.

She blinked.

It was a circus poster.

 _The Amazing Hawkeye, the Word's Greatest Marksman_ , it proclaimed in large letters. The figure of a young man stood out sharply against the yellow background. He was dressed boldly in purple and black, holding a bow at the ready, a fierce look of concentration on his face. The picture was poorly rendered, obviously cheaply made, but she recognized his features nonetheless.

Clint.

"His full name is Clinton Francis Barton," Coulson told her. "He's from Iowa, originally. Disappeared from Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders when he was 16. A missing person's report was filed, but he had a previous history as a runaway and the case was never seriously investigated."

Coulson reached into the file once more. She heard him shuffling through the contents but found that she couldn't take her eyes off the poster, even when Coulson spoke again.

"The same night he disappeared, his older brother was found dead. The official cause of death was anaphylactic shock, though he had no previously known allergies. The local police assumed that Clint was upset by his brother's death and left of his own volition. We can find no record of him after that point."

There was a pause.

"We've searched for information about you as well."

That brought her gaze back to him.

"Unfortunately, public records from Cold War era Russia are sparse to begin with, and even fewer have been computerized. The Red Room may have even purged your information from public archives, something they would not have been able to do in Clint's case. The program most likely has a copy of your original file, but we don't have access to their databases."

The spike of anger in her chest caught her off-guard; she hadn't known the extent to which the Red Room had gone to erase those few traces of her past, but the news should not have been surprising. Nonetheless, the knowledge stirred a quiet rage she had not known she possessed.

She pushed that feeling aside, however, her eyes narrowed. S.H.I.E.L.D. did nothing without a reason, and she knew that Coulson had not revealed this information as a courtesy to her.

"Why tell me any of this?"

"Because we believe that you might be a valuable asset to us, and we felt it wise to offer you something of value in return."

"To prove that our relationship would be mutually beneficial?" she asked, deliberately echoing Coulson's earlier wording.

Coulson nodded. "Something like that."

Almost against her will, her eyes found the poster again. "And Clint? Do you believe that he'll be a 'valuable asset' to you as well?"

"That, Ms. Romanoff," a deep voice interrupted, "is something else we need to discuss."

She turned to see a tall, dark-skinned man standing in the doorway. He was dressed head to toe in black, a long leather jacket hanging over BDUs, a TAC vest, and combat boots. He was bald, with a square jaw and broad nose, a goatee marking his chin. A patch covered his left eye, gnarled scars peering from beneath it, but his right eye was dark brown, his gaze piercing, his brow drawn together in something approaching a scowl.

"Director Fury," Coulson greeted, beginning to stand.

Fury waved away the formality and stepped further into the room, revealing a woman who had been hidden behind his broader frame. Natasha did not recognize the woman from her earlier visit to the infirmary, but she wore a blue skirt and a light purple blouse, both of which that were visible beneath a white lab coat; she had a slight build, and without the heels she wore, it was clear that she would have been only slightly taller than Natasha was herself. Her blue eyes peered out from behind a pair of glasses, and her blonde hair was pulled up into a French twist, a few loose strands falling around her face.

"Dr. Cynthia Lawson, our chief neurologist," Fury introduced.

Lawson offered her a small smile which Natasha did not return.

Fury said nothing else, simply waved Lawson to the front of the room and took one of the empty chairs next to Coulson, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest.

Lawson assumed a position beside the electronic screen, loosely clasping her hands in front of her waist. "Given the Red Room's history of using mind-altering techniques to control its operatives," she began, glancing at Natasha again, "I've been assigned to work with both you and Mr. Barton. In Mr. Barton's case, we ran a number of scans while he was unconscious, and we found something quite unexpected."

Lawson opened her mouth to continue, then hesitated, obviously reconsidering whatever it was she had been about to say. "Ms. Romanoff," she asked at last, "have you ever heard of a man named Phineas Gage?"

Natasha frowned and shook her head. "No."

"He's famous in neurological circles. He was a railroad foreman who was injured in an explosion. A tamping iron was sent up through his cheek and into the front of his brain, where it pierced the top of his skull. He survived, but witnesses claimed that his behavior was drastically altered after the accident, so much so that he seemed almost like another person. His case was one of the earliest to highlight the link between the personality and the brain, specifically, the frontal lobe."

"What does this have to do with Clint?"

Lawson touched the corner of the electronic screen, bringing it to life, then with a few quick flicks of her fingers, brought up the black and white image of a skull, the cross section showing the brain itself.

"This is one of the scans we took of Mr. Barton's brain," Lawson explained. "These darker, gray areas represent normal tissue, but these lighter areas here," she pointed to Clint's forehead, where a large, white mass seemed to reside, "represent altered tissue."

"Altered?" Natasha repeated.

Lawson nodded. "I'm not sure how else to describe it. This isn't the pattern we would expect to find with a head injury. In fact, the structure of the brain itself appears completely intact. But, areas in his frontal cortex and temporal lobe have clearly undergone some sort of…traumatic event. Essentially, he has suffered what appears to be a very deliberate, very specific type of brain damage."

It was instinct that kept Natasha from reacting in any visible way, but a buzzing began in her ears, not unlike what she had suffered during her last fight with Clint; a cold sensation began in her chest, spreading through her body and settling somewhere in her belly.

Fragmented memories surfaced in her mind, one after another in rapid succession.

" _Headache…"_

" _Don't let me forget…"_

" _We talk, don't we?"_

She tried to cling to them, grasping at them with desperate mental fingers, but they vanished just as quickly as they had come.

Natasha blinked to find that Fury was sitting forward in his chair, as if to study the image of Clint's brain more carefully. Clearly, this was the first time he had heard this information as well.

"You're saying that the Red Room inflicted _brain damage_ on one of its operatives? Deliberately? Why? How could that possibly benefit them?"

"Well," Lawson answered, "we've known for some time that the Red Room has the ability to alter the memories and personality of its operatives, but we weren't sure how they accomplished it. These scans might reveal just that. They show alterations in the areas of the brain believed to be involved with processing emotions and memories. In Mr. Barton's case, the damage appears serious enough that significant changes in his personality were probably readily apparent; in fact, I won't be able to say for certain until I speak with Mr. Barton myself, but from the scans alone, it seems likely that he has trouble accessing strong emotions and displays a very flat affect."

"He does," Natasha agreed, and felt all the eyes in the room turn to her. "I've seen it when we've fought."

Fury's scowl seemed to deepen as he studied her, then he turned back to the doctor. "Wouldn't that interfere with his ability to do his job?"

"It depends on the types of tasks he was assigned. Ms. Romanoff, for example," she motioned in Natasha's direction, "told Agent Coulson that she was primarily tasked with infiltration and assassination, both of which require significant emotional intelligence and adaptability. It's doubtful that Mr. Barton could function in the same capacity. However, his intellect may be entirely intact; he may still be able to reason, to use logic, and understand probabilities. If that is the case, then he would be capable of acting independently - at least, to a certain extent. The parts of his brain responsible for physical processes such as his motor cortex, his sensory cortex, and his Parietal, Occipital, and Temporal lobes, are also completely untouched, so I assume that physically, he functions on an entirely normal level. Overall, given the changes visible in these scans, I believe that he is capable of following orders and carrying them out, but unlikely to act with complete autonomy."

"In other words, they wanted him to be easy to control," Fury surmised darkly.

Lawson nodded. "It would seem so, yes."

"Can it be reversed?" Coulson wondered.

It was the question Natasha might have asked herself, but her tongue seemed strangely incapable of forming the words.

The doctor hesitated. "It's hard to say. Neurology has come a long way, but there's really still so much that we don't know about how and why the brain functions as it does. And I'll be honest, I've never seen anything like this before. I can't even begin to guess how it was done, or what techniques were used, and that will make treatment much more difficult. At this point, I think the best we can do is treat this like we would any other brain injury, with therapy and counseling, training new areas of the brain to assume the functions that the damaged areas would normally control. But, even then, I can't say for certain how much improvement there will be." She paused, frowning. "Assuming that Mr. Barton has also undergone significant indoctrination, we'll have to deal with that first - we'll need his cooperation if therapy is going to have any impact."

That cold sensation in Natasha's belly seemed to sharpen, to freeze and break, forming shards of ice that seemed to shift with an unseen tide. Inexplicably, her eyes were drawn to the circus poster that still sat on the table, the bright colors strangely muted now.

She looked up only when she sensed Fury's stare. He had turned to face her and was leaning forward, his elbows resting on the tabletop, his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

"What about Ms. Romanoff?" he asked, clearly speaking to Lawson, but never taking his eye off of Natasha. "Do you think she's received the same 'alterations'?"

Lawson sent Natasha a brief, apologetic look. "I haven't yet had the chance to examine her myself, but my guess is that she has undergone some of these same changes, though the pattern of damage would be unique. As she told Agent Coulson, she was imprinted with numerous personalities over the years, and her long and short term memories have also been significantly altered on repeated occasions. However, she would still need to function at a high level while on a mission, so the alterations in her brain would need to be even more specific than those inflicted upon Mr. Barton, the equivalent of writing and rewriting a single piece of software over and over again. At this point, though, all I can offer you is speculation. I'll be able to tell you more once I'm able to perform some tests…with Ms. Romanoff's permission, of course," she added.

Natasha ignored the implied question for the time being, and simply returned Fury's stare. She felt herself being measured and judged, and kept her features purposefully blank, waiting to hear the verdict.

After a long moment, Fury's lips curled up into a smirk tinged with amusement. "You made fools of my Agents twice, Ms. Romanoff. First in Venezuela, at that motel, then in Brazil." He shook his head. "Waltzing right into that warehouse like you owned the place, even knowing that every person in that room had orders to shoot you on sight…that took guts, I'll give you that."

He unclasped his hands, leaning back in his chair and bracing his hands further apart on the tabletop, his right index finger tapping the surface twice, thoughtfully, his expression fading into something much more serious.

"But I don't trust you," he continued bluntly. "The Red Room is a can of worms on a good day, and this," he waved a hand in the direction of Dr. Lawson, "adds a whole other level of crazy. As far as I'm concerned, there's not a death painful enough for the people who created that place."

"We're in agreement then," she returned simply.

"Are we? Really? Because how can I even be sure that leaving the Red Room was your idea and not theirs? You could be their puppet right now and not even know it. Isn't that how it works?"

Natasha's jaw clenched, but she couldn't deny the accusation. She would have been lying if she said that the thought hadn't already crossed her mind over the days and weeks since she'd escaped the Red Room. She'd never considered that possibility for long, however; if she allowed it to linger, she would find herself questioning her every thought, every action, wondering if they were truly her own. _Oh, that way madness lies_ , a silent voice supplied, the long-forgotten quote all the more haunting because she could not recall when she had learned it. She had never possessed any great love for Shakespeare…but perhaps she had once been someone who did.

She closed her eyes for a moment, pushing that train of thought ruthlessly aside.

"What is it you want from me?" she demanded at last, opening her eyes once more. "If you want proof that I'm free from them, I can't give it to you."

"What I want, Ms. Romanoff," Fury answered, "is a reason to give you the benefit of the doubt. You've already shown us that you have skills that shouldn't go to waste. S.H.I.E.L.D. could use an asset like you…and Barton, if the Red Room hasn't turned his brain into so much mush."

She let the barb about Clint pass without any reaction, sensing it for the test it was. Clint had been her most apparent weak point thus far, and Fury wanted to see how she would respond his prodding.

She mulled over his earlier words instead.

When she had decided to approach S.H.I.E.L.D. she had never considered the possibility that she would be asked to join them. If indeed they upheld their end of the bargain, she'd assumed that she would eventually be moved to one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s maximum security facilities; it would not be the freedom she had imagined, but at least the Red Room would have no way to reach her there.

But this…this was unexpected.

Was it what she wanted? She had not left one master intending to run into the arms of another. She had planned to be her own master instead.

That wasn't a complete impossibility now - escaping from S.H.I.E.L.D. would be difficult, but it wasn't beyond her skills. She could carry out her original plan and go into business for herself. S.H.I.E.L.D. would reinstate the hit, of course, but she had already proven that she was capable of eluding them. And, with Clint safely out of the way, nothing would keep her from killing the next operative the Red Room sent. Or the next. Or the one after that.

That, however, was all her life would be. Running. Hiding. Fighting. Killing. Until, at last, someone succeeded in killing _her_.

She wanted more.

Would S.H.I.E.L.D. be able to give it to her?

There was only one way to know.

Using the arms of her wheelchair as leverage, she pushed her body up and slid across the table, sending the glass and plate crashing to the floor and the papers from Clint's file scattering; she struck Fury in the chest before he had a chance to react, his chair tipping backwards with him in it and her crouched on top of him, her momentum carrying them to the floor.

Fury's sidearm was in her hand a moment later, pointed at his temple.

Coulson had moved almost as quickly and was on his feet with his gun drawn. She was lucky that he hadn't yet pulled the trigger, but that had been a calculated risk. Dr. Lawson was unarmed, but she clearly had some sort of training because she'd moved away from the electronic screen to block Natasha's path to the door.

"You wanted a reason to give me the benefit of the doubt?" Natasha asked, cocking the gun. "I could kill you right now." She un-cocked the gun and clicked the safety back into place. "But I won't."

She rolled off of Fury and stood, ignoring the sharp stab of pain from her injured leg; the doctors would need to see to it again.

Turning the gun in her hand so that she gripped the muzzle, she held it out to Fury. "Is that reason enough?"

Fury stared up at her for a long moment before he snorted, shaking his head and accepting the gun. "It is."

Pushing himself to his feet, Fury motioned for Coulson and Lawson to stand down, then replaced the weapon in his holster. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Romanoff."

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are ready to pelt me with rotten fruit for what's been done to Clint, please, please stick with me. The story is far from over yet. :)
> 
> Some other notes:
> 
> 1\. The story about Phineas Gage is true. His accident occurred in 1848, and he lived nearly 13 years afterward. His skull - and the bar that injured him - are currently housed at the Harvard University School of Medicine.
> 
> 2\. To give credit where credit is due, some of this chapter was inspired by information found in the textbook, "Introduction to Psychology," by James W. Kalat.
> 
> 3\. Also, a small disclaimer - I studied English rather than medicine, so while I did a lot of research for this chapter, and tried to make it realistic (as realistic as this sort of fiction can be, at least :) ) I can't say for certain that everything is perfectly accurate. If there happen to be any neurologists reading, and you notice any big issues, please let me know.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	14. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.

** Chapter 14 **

_Six months later…_

It was the buzzing of the alarm clock that woke her.

Natasha reached for the clock and turned it off, then pushed back the blankets on her bunk and stood, the metal of the floor cool against her bare feet. Reaching for a hair tie on the nightstand, she pulled her hair up into a hasty bun and walked to the bathroom attached to her living quarters.

The quarters she had been assigned on the Helicarrier were small and windowless but comfortable enough, consisting of a bed, a bedside table, a chair, and a closet, and they were, at least, relatively private. S.H.I.E.L.D. monitored them continuously, and a pair of guards were always stationed just outside her door, but she'd been unable to find any cameras or listening devices inside the rooms themselves.

Shedding the loose t-shirt and shorts that served as her nightclothes, she stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It was warm the instant it began flowing from the tap and she closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the luxury she had never been allowed inside the Red Room.

She did not linger there, however.

Opening her eyes, she washed quickly then shut off the water and reached for a nearby towel. She rubbed her body dry, then wrapped the towel around her torso and stepped over to the sink to brush her teeth and wash her face. When that was done, she pulled her hair free from the bun, reached for her hairbrush, and began running it through the shoulder-length strands, glancing at her reflection as she did so.

S.H.I.E.L.D. employed its own stylists, both for agents being sent on undercover missions and for those whose schedules did not allow them to leave often enough to have their personal grooming needs seen to elsewhere. Natasha had been given permission to visit them herself, and had chosen to have her hair dyed back to its natural red. She'd also had the ends trimmed, though she was considering the possibility of growing it out once more. She had liked the greater length, even if the practicality of the shorter style was not lost on her. In either case, having the choice at all was something of a novelty.

Setting the brush aside once more, she walked back into the other room, stopping in front the closet that held her limited wardrobe. S.H.I.E.L.D. had retrieved the clothing she'd collected in Brazil, though she found most of it too bright for her own tastes. Still unable to leave the Helicarrier to buy something more to her liking, more often than not, she simply wore one of the unmarked pairs of black BDUs that S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided her with.

She had not yet been given a uniform.

Despite Fury's welcome, her status as an agent wasn't official, and wouldn't be for some time. First came a lengthy evaluation period during which a team of psychologists would determine her fitness for duty.

She understood the necessity of it. S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to ensure that there was no unknown programming lurking in her mind, waiting to be triggered. They also needed to be certain that she was not mentally unbalanced to the point that she would be a danger to herself or those intended to be her allies.

Ostensibly, the sessions with the psychologists were for her benefit as well, a means of counteracting some of the Red Room's influence, but she saw little real value in any of it. Her mind was what the Red Room had made it, and no amount of talking could change that.

Moreover, in the six months since the sessions had begun, S.H.I.E.L.D. had been unable to unearth any psychological minefields, she'd passed all of the cognitive tests they had administered, and the psychologists had grudgingly admitted that overall, she was "remarkably stable, if lacking in natural empathy." Beyond that, whether or not her mental state was considered "healthy" did not concern her. But, the sessions were one of the primary conditions for her eventual employment with S.H.I.E.L.D., and so she continued to attend them.

Reaching for one of the BDUs, she took it from the hanger and dressed, sitting down on her bunk to lace her boots. When she was finished, she remade the bed, dropped her used towel into the laundry chute, and walked to the door.

It slid open and she stepped into the corridor, ignoring the guards as they moved to follow her. In that way, she supposed, S.H.I.E.L.D. had not proven to be terribly different from the Red Room, though Coulson assured her that she would eventually be given clearance to move about more freely. Until then, however, she was required to have an escort with her at all times.

The trip to the mess hall wasn't a long one. A few heads turned as she entered, but her presence had become routine and she was largely ignored. She preferred it that way, though recently, the psychologists had begun to suggest that she should try to associate more with others, rather than isolating herself. She had calmly pointed out that because she was still considered a security risk, socializing might actually be viewed with suspicion, but she knew it was not the last time she would hear of it.

Walking over to the cutlery station, she collected a tray, plate, glass, and silverware, then started for the food counter. The mess hall was set up in a buffet-style, with the majority of it being self-serve, though the kitchen staff was never far away. The food was surprisingly good, and there was always a wide variety to choose from, something she could not help but appreciate. This morning she chose scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, and orange juice to drink.

Her meal selected, she picked a table in the corner of the room, one with a good view of the entry and exit points, then sat down and began to eat. The guards remained standing, taking up at-ease positions a short distance behind her.

When the sound of footsteps caught her attention a few minutes later, she looked up to find Coulson walking towards her.

"Morning," he said, claiming the seat across from her.

He wore his customary suit and tie and held a cup of coffee in one hand.

Natasha nodded in answer and took another bite of her breakfast. Coulson's presence wasn't unusual; he'd begun joining her for meals a few weeks earlier - likely at the prompting of the psychologists - but he never pressed her to talk and she didn't particularly mind his company.

"I have some news." Coulson took an experimental sip of his coffee, then frowned faintly at the taste and leaned forward to grab one of the sweetener packets sitting on the table. "You've been cleared to visit Barton."

Natasha looked up again, this time in surprise.

She had seen Clint often since he'd been taken into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s custody, but always from a distance. Considering that his last order from the Red Room had been to kill her, both Dr. Lawson and the psychologists had felt that her presence might interfere with their efforts to break the Red Room's hold on his mind…though "break" was perhaps the wrong word.

As Dr. Lawson had explained, the Red Room had manipulated Clint's mind in such a way that he had no means of resisting their influence. So, in order to alter his allegiance, they had been forced to use the conditioning already in place, transferring his loyalty from the Red Room to S.H.I.E.L.D. itself. Natasha had been allowed to observe the process, and though she had found their methods to be far milder than the ones the Red Room utilized, she had loathed it nonetheless.

Even if it was intended for his ultimate good, it was not his choice. It would never be his choice.

The Red Room had seen to that.

Clint's reconditioning had been completed a few weeks ago, and once his cooperation had been assured, they had begun working on his rehabilitation, trying to reverse some of the damage the Red Room had done. Still, Dr. Lawson had felt it best that Natasha not be introduced to him until they could be certain that he was stable.

Natasha had not expected that to happen so soon.

"When?" she asked.

Coulson took another sip of his coffee. "This afternoon."

Natasha nodded, considering the day that lay ahead. Her schedule inside the Helicarrier was regimented, though not to the extent it had been in the Red Room.

Her sessions with the psychologists generally lasted about an hour each morning - she was sure, suddenly, that Clint would be the main focus of their discussion today - and after that, she was allotted time to use the gym. The wound in her leg had long-since healed, as had the various other injuries she had suffered in her confrontations with Clint, and she had been allowed to resume all normal physical activity, though she had not yet been given permission to exercise with the general population. (However, on more than one occasion her workouts had been observed by the officers usually tasked with training S.H.I.E.L.D.'s newest recruits, and she hoped that eventually she would be allowed to spar with them.)

After the gym, she had a meeting with Coulson himself, who had begun familiarizing her with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s standard mission protocol. Lunch followed, and then she had an appointment of her own with the neurology department, where she was to undergo another series of scans. This would be the fourth round of such tests; Natasha did not enjoy them, but she had agreed to cooperate in hopes that Lawson might discover something useful.

She had originally been told that, once the doctors were finished, she would be excused for the remainder of the day, free to do as she wished, but perhaps that would change now, since the time would likely be taken up by her visit with Clint.

Suddenly eager to finish her breakfast, Natasha resumed eating, ignoring the small, knowing smile Coulson tried to hide behind his cup.

* * *

The private corridor outside Clint's room was empty.

At least, it appeared that way, though Natasha had no doubt that the doctors - both Clint's and her own - would be watching this meeting with particular interest. More than likely, they were doing so via the numerous cameras that monitored Clint himself.

She was grateful for the illusion of solitude nonetheless.

It meant that, for the moment, there were no questions to answer, nothing she would be forced to explain. That would undoubtedly come later, but for now she was alone with her thoughts…and Clint.

She could see him through the large, two way mirror built into the upper-half of the wall adjoining the corridor. The doctors used it to observe him unseen in addition to the cameras, the reflective surface on the other side shielding them from his gaze.

Clint was seated in a chair, an open folder held in his lap, his head bent as he read. He was dressed in a set of unmarked BDUs much like her own, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, leaving his forearms bare. When they had first taken him into custody, she had seen faint tan lines on his arms from where the Brazilian sun had had marked the surface of his skin in the shape of the wrist guards and shooting glove he had worn. But, now the marks had faded, as though they had never been.

Drawing away from the window looking into his room, she stepped over to the door, reaching for the control panel and typing in the access code the doctors had given her.

The door slid open a moment later.

Clint looked up as she entered.

She had known better than to expect that he would be any different. Dr. Lawson had warned her that therapy was only just beginning, and his progress at this point had been negligible. All the same, the still-present blankness in his eyes was startling for reasons she could not explain.

"Clint," she said simply.

He stared at her, though not with any particular interest or curiosity. Then, he blinked, cocking his head, his expression unchanged.

"I know you."

For an instant, hope sparked in her chest; she smothered it quickly, but that did not lessen the sting of his next words:

"You were my next target."

She pushed the sudden disappointment aside and nodded. "I was," she agreed.

"But you were working with them - with S.H.I.E.L.D." Clint blinked again. "I remember the ambush in the jungle."

Natasha felt something like relief - S.H.I.E.L.D. had promised that their methods would not alter his remaining memories, only his loyalty. It appeared that they had kept their word. Still, knowing that Clint did indeed remember the events in Brazil, she might have expected his statement to be filled with accusation, but it wasn't. If he'd been capable of it, would he have been angry?

"It was necessary," she offered, feeling that she owed him at least that much of an explanation.

"To bring me here, I know. They told me."

He sounded neither pleased nor upset, he was simply repeating the words as if by rote.

Silence fell, and Natasha allowed it to continue. Clint, she knew, would not be the one to break it.

He had already returned to his reading.

Taking another step into the room, Natasha let her gaze wander. She had seen it a number of times since Clint had been moved there, though never from this angle. Like her quarters, a door in the back of the space led to a small, private bathroom, but the room itself was more spacious than her own, and it was decorated to appear more like a home in hopes that the extra sensory stimulation might further Clint's recovery.

The room had been carpeted and contained a bed, a chest of drawers, a lamp, two bookshelves filled with books, and the chair in which Clint sat. Curtains hung on either side of the two way mirror, an addition Natasha hadn't initially understood, since, after all, the mirror existed to allow them to observe Clint's behavior. But, Dr. Lawson had told her, that was precisely the point. Clint _knew_ he was being observed, and if he took the initiative to close those curtains, claiming his privacy, it would represent a marked improvement in his condition.

So far, the curtains had remained untouched.

The walls of the room were decorated with art, scenes the psychologists thought might interest Clint and pictures they hoped would be familiar, including one of the Iowa countryside. But it was the circus poster that caught her attention, a larger version of the one Coulson had shown her initially.

She frowned as she traced the letters of Clint's stage name with her eyes.

_The Amazing Hawkeye_.

Something flitted around the edges of her consciousness, but when she tried to force the memories to the surface, they seemed to retreat even further away.

She wondered if they would always be beyond her reach.

Scarring, Dr. Lawson had called it - the evidence of the Red Room's manipulations in the areas of her brain responsible for long and short term memory. Lawson had found something similar in Clint, though his scarring had been less extensive, suggesting that the Red Room had altered his memories less often. The neurologist had hypothesized that the other alterations made to Clint's brain made that sort of intervention less necessary. Regardless of the intel he possessed, he would not have betrayed the Red Room. It simply would not have occurred to him. But, while he was able to recall more from the missions he had been assigned - information he had offered up freely after his reconditioning - it had been confirmed that he remembered nothing of his life before that.

If he understood what had been taken from him, he did not feel the loss.

Natasha could almost envy him that.

Dragging her gaze away from the circus poster, Natasha walker closer to Clint, stopping at his side. She could imagine the doctors holding their collective breaths as they watched the camera feed; if Clint were still going to try to kill her despite S.H.I.E.L.D.'s reconditioning, it would be now.

But he did nothing.

She peered down at the folder he held. "What are you reading?"

She could guess well enough, but she had been told that Clint responded more readily to direct questions.

"My file. Dr. Lawson ordered me to memorize it."

He paused suddenly, frowning very faintly as he looked up to meet her eyes. "Clint - my name. You said it when we fought. You knew it already. How?"

So, he _had_ heard her then, even if he'd acted as though she hadn't spoken a word; she wondered suddenly if the Red Room had ordered him to never speak with a target.

"I knew you," she said simply. "From before."

For the first time, she saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Something other than nothingness.

Then he blinked and it was gone.

"I don't remember."

"I'll help you."

"Why?"

"Because, once, you helped me."

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	15. The Space Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 15 **

The view from inside Clint's room was now a familiar one.

Since her first meeting with him a few weeks before, Natasha had become a routine part of his therapy. She would sit with Clint as the neuropsychologists led him through various cognitive exercises, and participate if they felt it would be beneficial. Or, she would be asked to simply spend time with Clint in hopes that a less restricted form of interaction would accomplish what the doctors' methods could not.

Today, it was the latter.

They sat alone in Clint's room, Natasha seated across from him at the table that was the most recent addition to the space.

Silence had fallen between them, which wasn't unusual. Clint did not talk often, and almost never without prompting, though gradually, Natasha had begun to learn how to read him, how to judge if there was something he simply couldn't grasp, or if he had a question he would not voice unless pressed to do so.

That was the case now.

She could see the faint line marking his brow, and the way that the creases around his eyes had deepened slightly. It was the closest he ever came to expressing curiosity.

"Clint," she said simply. "Ask what you want to ask."

He hesitated for a moment, and something passed through his gaze, but it was gone before she had a chance to study it.

"You remember me," he began at last. "From before."

"Yes."

"How? Why?"

Natasha drew back, surprised. It was the first time since their initial conversation that Clint had shown any real interest in their collective past - what little of it she could offer.

"I don't know," she answered. "I wasn't supposed to remember. But I did."

Dr. Lawson had said that there was no physical reason why those particular memories had been preserved, at least, none that she could see. Natasha was lucky to have retained the few fragments she still possessed, and even that was more than the Red Room had intended for her to keep.

"You wanted to fight them," Natasha added, her fingers curling into a fist without her permission. "You made _me_ want to fight them."

Clint blinked, the line between his brows deepening faintly as he considered that.

"Fight them," he repeated, and for an instant, she thought she saw the fingers of his right hand twitch, curling a little like hers.

It wasn't much. But it was something.

* * *

"Tell me about your family," the psychologist instructed.

"My parents died when I was six years old," Clint recited, the memorized facts rolling obediently off his tongue. "Their names were Amanda and Wade. I had an older brother named Barney. He is also dead."

The psychologist nodded, apparently satisfied, and wrote something down on the chart he held. Then, he waved a hand at the table, where a small group of photographs sat.

"Tell me who each of these people are."

That was a more recent addition to the mental roll call Clint was asked to perform at the opening of each session. It was hoped that by linking faces with the facts he'd been required to learn that the people from his past might become more real to him. Perhaps it would even stir long-buried memories.

Natasha let her gaze follow Clint's, examining the pictures herself.

The photo of Clint's father was an old mug shot; he looked a great deal like Clint around his nose and chin, and his eyes were blue, but his hair was dark brown. He was sneering drunkenly, his lips curled in obvious distain, the ID placard held crookedly in his hand.

His mother's picture was an old Polaroid - Natasha wondered where S.H.I.E.L.D. had found it. She had the look of a woman who had been beautiful once, but her beauty had been frayed and worn; her blonde hair was limp and lifeless and her skin was pale and dull, frown lines etched across her forehead and around her mouth. She wasn't smiling.

The last photograph was of Clint's older brother. He was standing in an office of some kind, a poster for Child Protective Services hanging on a wall behind him. She guessed that he'd been about fourteen at the time the picture had been taken, and he too, looked a great deal like Clint, though he had darker hair, a trait he'd obviously inherited from their father. He was glaring at the camera sullenly, his arms crossed, a healing bruise visible along the right side of his jaw.

All at once, the boy's gaze seemed to shift, growing older and more accusing.

Natasha blinked and looked away, abruptly becoming aware that Clint was speaking again, pointing to each photograph in turn.

"That is my mother," he was saying, "my father, and my brother…"

* * *

"Choose a color. Which one do your prefer?"

Clint blinked, staring at the short row of colored blocks that had been placed in front of him. Red, blue, yellow, green, and purple.

This was a tactic the doctors often used. They would ask Clint to chose which meal he wanted, which set of clothes he would wear, or which book he would read. Then, Clint was required to explain his decision.

Natasha understood their methodology, but she couldn't help but be frustrated by the juvenile nature of the questions.

Clint's intellect was perfectly intact; in fact, as the doctors had discovered, he had been given the same forced education she had, receiving extensive instruction in mathematics, history, and science.

Expressing his preferences, however, was beyond him.

It was in moments like these that she felt her hatred for the Red Room grow.

Generally, it took Clint several minutes to make a choice and formulate an answer the doctors would accept, but today, only a few moments passed before he frowned very faintly and slowly reached for the purple block.

The doctor looked surprised. "Why did you choose that one?" she pressed.

Clint's frown deepened and he didn't answer.

Natasha glanced over at the circus poster still hanging on Clint's wall, at the image of a teenage boy dressed in purple and black, and thought perhaps she knew.

* * *

The first time Clint was allowed to leave his room, Natasha accompanied him.

They been granted access only to the "public" areas of the Helicarrier, and a four-man security detail had been assigned to escort them, but since Dr. Lawson had stressed the importance of letting Clint lead when the opportunity arose, Natasha had left it to him to decide where they would go.

She had been surprised when he had stopped at a balcony overlooking the commons.

He had taken her there again the next day, and the next, and she found herself wondering if he had chosen that spot because she had approved of it the first time, and he saw no need to deviate from the norm.

So, each day afterward, she had insisted that he choose a part of the ship they had yet to see.

First, it was a small maintenance platform overlooking the auxiliary storage bay.

Then, it was the observation room overlooking the gym.

Then, the catwalks overlooking one of the labs.

Clint, she had finally realized, simply liked heights.

* * *

Natasha had never been one to sit still.

Whether that was a result of nature or nurture she couldn't say, but if it was an inherent trait, the Red Room had certainly encouraged it. They had demanded that their operatives remain in peak physical condition at all times, barring serious injury.

The habit was engrained now, a routine part of her life, and if she were honest, something she truly enjoyed.

She wondered if it were the same for Clint. He had been seen working out in his room every day since he'd first been taken into custody, and the doctors had debated about whether or not that could be considered a demonstration of personal initiative, or if it was simply a response to orders he had previously received regarding his physical health.

Natasha was certain of the answer when he was finally given clearance to begin using the gym, and she saw his eagerness, not in his expression, but in the quick strides he took to reach the weightlifting equipment lining the gym's far wall.

* * *

There were whispers the moment that she and Clint sat down in the mess hall.

Natasha had expected it. The general population of the Helicarrier had been offered only the barest facts about Clint and herself, and rumors had spread quickly, some more outlandish than others. Clint had become a particular topic of interest, and now that he was allowed to move more freely around the Helicarrier, the rumors had only grown.

Natasha had not been ordered to remain silent per se - classified intel was, quite obviously, off limits, but otherwise she had been given permission to share as much information as she wished.

She had chosen to say nothing.

Who she and Clint were, what their relationship was to each other, and why they had come to S.H.I.E.L.D. was not information the general population needed to know. Moreover, the mystery surrounding them seemed to discourage anyone from approaching, which Natasha preferred, despite the psychologists' continuing insistence that she attempt to socialize.

She might have made a different choice had Clint himself been different - she had the vague sense that the Clint from her memories might have pushed precisely the same thing that the doctors had. But the Clint of the present felt no need to interact with anyone save herself, the doctors, and Coulson, and when a few bolder individuals had tried to talk with him, Clint's stilted responses and blank stares had changed their minds soon enough.

Natasha had known then that even if she could eventually gain the acceptance of others, Clint would not find the same reception. So, she had allowed the rumors to grow and spread, until murmurs about "the Russians" had become an almost daily occurrence.

She wondered what they would have said had they known that Clint was not Russian by birth…or by choice.

* * *

They were cautious the first time they trusted Clint with a weapon.

Both the shooting range and surrounding areas had been cleared of all unnecessary personnel, and even Natasha had been ordered to watch from the observation room with Coulson and Fury, rather than from inside the range itself.

She could not fault their reasoning; she had seen Clint's skill firsthand, and she knew it would have been foolish to underestimate him.

As though reading her thoughts, Fury turned to look at her.

"He actually as good as you say he is?"

"See for yourself," Natasha answered, nodding towards the glass separating them from the range.

Fury snorted softly and folded his arms across his chest, turning to watch as Clint moved into position.

Clint stopped at the end of the range and raised the bow in his hands. His fingers tightened around it, his thumb brushing over the metal curves before he reached into the quiver over his shoulder and withdrew an arrow.

He nocked it against the string, stared at the target for a fraction of a second, then released.

The range, which had been designed to simulate actual combat, was immediately in motion, moving not only in front of Clint but around him, the targets shifting almost faster than the eye could follow, twisting in an intricate mechanical dance.

Natasha eyes narrowed faintly.

She had been given permission to begin using the range herself just a few weeks before, and she had not yet tried this particular configuration. Considering that this was the first time Clint had been allowed to handle a bow since his capture months before, it was unlikely that he was prepared to face what seemed to be the range's most difficult setting.

Then again, she thought, glancing at Fury, that was probably the idea.

She turned back to the range just in time to see Clint duck a target that had suddenly became the aggressor; he fired backwards at it with his bow, not even bothering to see where the arrow landed, then pivoted to the left, another arrow appearing in his hand. It was loosed a split second later and then Clint was moving again, rolling forward and coming up with his bow raised, the next arrow already cutting through the air.

He spun once more, another arrow hitting target that lunged at him from the right, then he dropped to his knees, took aim at a target gliding along the floor, and fired. Rolling quickly onto his back, he did a no-handed kip, jumping up to his feet and turning to hit a target that had suddenly appeared behind him.

This, Natasha thought, was his element. _This_ was the one thing the Red Room hadn't taken from him.

" _I do trick shots with my bow."_

" _You are good?"_

" _Yeah. I am."_

As quickly as it had begun, the range came to a halt, the simulation over, and Clint relaxed, automatically falling into an at-ease position, waiting for evaluation.

But, when it became clear just what the outcome of Fury's test had been, only silence filled the observation room.

Every single target had one arrow in it, dead center.

Fury, Natasha saw, was staring in disbelief, his eyebrows raised to the middle of his forehead in frank surprise. Coulson looked equally stunned.

Natasha didn't bother to suppress the small, satisfied smile that curved her lips.

* * *

If S.H.I.E.L.D. had been cautious the first time Clint had been allowed to handle a weapon, they had been even more so the first time Natasha was allowed to spar with him.

The psychologists were concerned that using physical violence against her would somehow weaken the effect of his reconditioning, since, after all, his last orders from the Red Room had been to kill her.

For that reason, she and Clint stood opposite one another on the sparring mat, ringed with security personnel who had orders to intervene should the match take a dangerous turn. They'd been told to use non-lethal force if at all possible, and held Tasers at the ready, but they wore their sidearms as well.

Natasha was not particularly worried. Even if Clint did turn against her, she did not believe that he would be able to kill her outright. In actual combat, his biggest advantage had been his bow, but in hand-to-hand they seemed to be, essentially, evenly matched, despite Clint's greater height and weight.

If anything, she looked forward to facing him again. She had been given clearance to begin sparring with others two months before, and she had already faced a wide range of opponents, from fresh-faced recruits who'd been eager to prove themselves, to seasoned veterans who had been curious about her skills. Some she'd defeated easily, while others had been quite good, but she had found no one who had matched her blow for blow the way that Clint had when they'd fought. She was eager to see who would win a match that lacked any lethal intent.

Coulson gave the signal for them to begin, and they both immediately dropped down into sparring stances, circling each other, obviously looking for weak points.

Clint surprised her when he moved first with an elbow aimed for her ribs, but she dodged the blow, twisting around him to strike at his back. He had obviously anticipated that because he dropped and rolled forward, then bounced back easily to his feet, facing her once again.

Natasha's eyes narrowed faintly and she rushed at him, kicking out, her leg aimed for his head. He caught her leg and threw her back, using her own momentum against her. She landed several feet away, hitting the mat with a grunt, and Clint gave her no time to recover, running at her, landing on top of her, trying to pin her under his greater weight.

She didn't give him the chance. Bringing her legs up to her chest, she pushed up with both feet, throwing him off before he could find a firm hold. They were both on their feet a moment later, and Clint struck again, the heel of his hand aimed for her sternum, but she arched away, turning it into a back flip. Clint, however, followed her, doing an aerial summersault of his own and landing behind her.

When his arm snaked around her throat, she heard the security personnel start forward in alarm, but she was already in motion, throwing her weight forward, forcing Clint over her head so that he landed on his back in front of her.

She was distantly aware of Coulson ordering the security personnel to stand down, but her focus was on Clint who was kicking out, sweeping her legs out from under her, sending her to the floor yet again.

She rolled away, coming up in a crouch and tossing her head back, the short strands of her hair flying away from her face, a fierce grin forming on her lips.

Clint had taken up a similar position across the mat; he was watching her, his expression characteristically blank, but there was a very faint challenging glint in his eyes.

Her smile growing, Natasha charged.

* * *

Clint walked beside her, a duffle bag held in his hand.

It contained his few possessions - the clothes, books, and other items he had chosen from among the various things S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided him with. They would fill his quarters now, rather than the observation room he'd lived in for the last year.

Clint seemed entirely unaffected by the move, even now as they made their way down the halls of the Helicarrier, but Natasha could not say that she was surprised. She had become fluent in the language Clint used, learned to read the subtle tells beneath his stoic surface, and she was able to judge when he felt something akin to absolute indifference.

Where he lived and whether or not he was being watched didn't matter to him at all.

Even the curtains flanking the two way mirror in his room had remained untouched - Clint had never once attempted to shut them, never attempted to claim his privacy in that way. Dr. Lawson had tried to assure her that those curtains were hardly the only measure of Clint's progress, and that he had shown improvement in other areas, but Natasha understood the implications nonetheless.

Clint might only progress so far but no farther; it was even possible that he had recovered as much as he ever would. Only time would tell. Time and Clint himself.

When they reached the door of Clint's new quarters, Clint pressed the panel at the entrance, and the door slid open to admit them. Clint moved straight for the bed and set his duffle bag down, starting to unpack methodically.

Natasha lingered in the doorway for a moment, allowing her gaze to sweep the space. The quarters were nearly identical to hers, with a bed, a bedside table, a closet, and an adjoining bathroom. She had no doubt that the room was monitored like her own as well, but at least he would be free from constant observation.

Stepping closer to Clint she held out a hand, and he seemed to understand her silent offer to help because he gave her one of the shirts he had just placed on a hanger. She carried it to the closet and then returned for another one.

Together, they made short work of the relatively small pile of his things until all that remained was a framed picture sitting facedown in the duffle.

Clint picked it up, and set it on top of the bedside table, propped against the wall.

Natasha blinked.

The circus poster. Clint had taken the circus poster with him.

Maybe those curtains didn't matter so much after all.

* * *

Clint's fist flew towards her head.

Natasha arched back, the blow missing her nose by just a fraction of an inch, then she reached up, wrapping her hands around his extended forearm, tightening her grip, holding him in place as she kicked up into his stomach.

He grunted as the strike connected, but he surprised her by wrapping his free arm under her knee, locking her leg to his chest before he used his greater weight to throw himself backwards onto the mat, sending her flying over his head.

She managed to turn it into a roll, and came up to face him again.

They had just begun to circle each other once more when she heard Coulson call their names from the gym's entrance.

"Romanoff, Barton."

Relaxing her stance, she held up a hand, halting the match. "Достаточно." _Enough_.

The Russian fell from her tongue partly out of habit and partly because she had found that Clint responded better to it when they sparred.

Clint gave a brisk nod in answer, the tension immediately easing from his muscles.

She turned to Coulson expectantly; he watched them train often, but he had never interrupted them before, and she suspected he wouldn't do so now without a reason.

His words when he reached them confirmed that.

"We have a situation."

Natasha's eyes narrowed faintly, her mind already sifting through the possibilities. After a little over a year's worth of evaluation, both she and Clint had been cleared by the psychologists and doctors alike, but they had yet to be officially named as agents. She wondered if it were an additional test on Fury's part, or if, perhaps, someone in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s chain of command felt they were still too great of a security risk.

Had S.H.I.E.L.D. decided not to accept them after all?

"What kind of situation?" she asked bluntly.

Coulson hesitated, obviously trying to decide how much to reveal.

"We've just become aware of a certain…artifact," he began finally, "one with some unique properties that will make it very interesting to the right people. We've got the situation locked down for now, but it's only a matter of time before someone comes to take the artifact for themselves. We need to be ready when that happens."

Natasha blinked in surprise. Of all the possible scenarios she had imagined, a mission hadn't been one of them.

"We're not cleared for field work," she pointed out.

"You are now."

Rather than allaying her suspicions, Coulson's swift response only served to intensify them. S.H.I.E.L.D., she knew, would only act so quickly if the situation was serious enough to merit that sort of haste.

If Coulson sensed the direction of her thoughts, he didn't show it; he simply turned around, walking back towards the gym's entrance, clearly expecting them to follow.

Natasha's eyes narrowed again but she started forward anyway, motioning to Clint who automatically fell into step beside her.

They caught up to Coulson a moment later.

"The artifact," she pressed. "I assume you want us to guard it?"

"Something like that."

"And what exactly is it that we'll be guarding?"

"A hammer."

"A hammer," she repeated.

Coulson just smiled and led them down the next corridor.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	16. Field Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 16 **

They arrived in New Mexico after sunset.

The site wasn't difficult to spot, even from the air; large floodlights shown down over it, chasing away the darkness, offering Natasha a clear view of the area as their quinjet approached. Coulson had given her and Clint a copy of the installation's layout before take-off, and it had been memorized easily enough, but nonetheless, she was glad to have the chance to study the compound from above.

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s newest complex stood in a large basin, in the middle of what appeared to be a ring of giant, concentric craters. The compound was enclosed by a tall, razor-wire fence and consisted of a network of winding plastic tunnels and prefabricated buildings all surrounding one central square. Additional trailers and tents were lined up a short distance away, linked to the main complex by freshly-hewn dirt roads. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a small city had sprung up in the middle of the desert.

The jet was granted clearance to land almost immediately and it touched down on a long strip of hard ground, sending a cloud of dust into the air as the engines slowed. Coulson stood as the landing ramp lowered, already starting for the complex. Assuming that he wanted them to follow, Natasha matched his brisk pace, hearing Clint do the same beside her.

Up close, the installation swarmed with activity; an almost constant stream of security personnel, scientists, and technicians moved past, some jogging from one building to the next, others driving motorized carts to cover the distance more quickly.

Even here she and Clint drew a few curious looks, though she suspected that was partly due to the fact that their crisp, new uniforms marked them as recent additions to the agency. Natasha glanced down and frowned faintly. The uniform she'd been given was sized well enough, but it was still looser than she preferred, more likely to get in her way during a fight. She would have to ask Coulson about obtaining something more form-fitting.

A short walk across the compound brought them to central command where a bald man in a charcoal suit stood in front of a bank of electronic screens, directing the group of technicians monitoring the feeds from various cameras. He turned around as they approached, the light from the screens reflecting off of his glasses and the ID badge clipped to his lapel.

"Sitwell," Coulson greeted, offering him a nod. "Status?"

"It's been relatively quiet, sir. The coyotes are playing havoc with the thermal imaging system and there have been a few false alarms. There's also been a lot of air traffic from SAF*, but we've had no issues diverting flights. I've gotten an earful from the techs about the interference that thing is causing, though." He nodded in the direction of the square, roofless tower.

Coulson smirked faintly. "I'm not surprised. Has Bigsby's team made any progress?"

"None that they've reported, sir."

Coulson nodded again then turned on his heel, this time clearly headed for the central square. Thunder rumbled overhead as Natasha once more fell into place behind him, and she frowned. The skies had been relatively clear just a few minutes before, though, she supposed, weather in a desert was sometimes unpredictable. Clint was still at her side, matching her step for step the way he often seemed to, but she slowed considerably when they finally reached the center of the complex and she caught sight of what actually lay in the middle of it.

She had wondered if "hammer" was a code word of some sort, but clearly it wasn't.

It was a large hammer with a thick, square head, not the type used in construction, but one obviously intended to be used in battle. Intricate carvings filled small panels on each end, but the rest of the hammer's surface was smooth, its matte finish gleaming dully in the light. The handle was wrapped in brown leather, another loop of leather dangling from the end, designed to wrap around a wrist.

The hammer alone might not have seemed so remarkable if it weren't for the fact that the head was partially lodged inside a pillar of bedrock, its handle protruding into the air as though inviting bystanders to attempt to free it from its resting place.

Natasha might have thought that the hammer was part of some sort of archeological dig site - a relic buried centuries ago and found during an excavation - except that a small ring of earth had been pushed up around it and another larger ring was visible a few feet farther out.

She recalled the much larger, concentric craters she had seen ringing the installation, and standing here now, she could see that they appeared to originate from the hammer itself. But…how was that possible? Even if the hammer had been dropped from a plane, it wouldn't have been thrown with enough force to cause that sort of damage to the earth around it, nor should it have been traveling fast enough to have made such an impact.

Unless, of course, it had been falling from space.

Natasha dismissed that idea immediately - that was far too unlikely to be believed.

She would leave the speculation to the scientists.

There were certainly enough of them. They buzzed around the site, some dressed head to toe in white, others wearing suits, circling the hammer with various pieces of equipment in hand. A few stood on the walkways above, exchanging hushed whispers and spats of technical jargon.

One man in particular seemed especially animated. His was short and stocky, with short, dark brown hair sticking up at odd angles as though he'd run his hands through it several times and hadn't bothered to smooth it back down again. His white lab coat was rumpled, brown smudges marking his knees - probably from kneeling down in the dirt - and a pair of plastic safety goggles was perched crookedly on his nose. He was standing in a corner, waving to one of the groups on the walkways, calling out instructions.

"Bigsby," Coulson tried. "Bigsby!"

Lightening flashed overhead, the thunder louder than before, raindrops beginning to pelt the ground through the square's open roof, but the scientist must have heard him because he finally turned around.

"Agent Coulson!" He hurried over, adjusting his goggles as he went. "The artifact is incredible! Unlike anything I've ever seen before. I could spend years studying the alloy alone!"

"I'm sure you could, Doctor, but unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time. We need answers now."

"I know, and we're working as fast as we can, but I'm not sure if you appreciate the difficulties we're facing. The artifact is emitting interference similar to a Coronal Mass Ejection. We're using filters but they only do so much, and the vast majority of our equipment is cutting in and out. We've had to resort to taking handwritten notes!" He motioned towards the walkways where a number of scientists held clipboards and pens, then scowled up at the sky. "This weather will only make things worse."

He paused, frowning suddenly, then pointed a hand at Clint, who, Natasha saw, had stopped behind Coulson, a few feet away from the hammer.

"You! You there," Bigsby demanded, "move away from that! You're liable to damage it!"

Natasha arched an eyebrow - the hammer hardly looked fragile. If anything it looked more likely to do some damage of its own.

Clint backed away obediently and the scientist watched him go, glaring and muttering under his breath. He was obviously not intending to be overheard, but his voice carried easily enough in the enclosed space.

"You soldier types. Nothing but trouble. Do you even understand what this is? No, of course not. How could you?"

Clint cocked his head. "It looks like a maul - a type of late-medieval war hammer used during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries."

Bigsby sputtered, his mouth opening and closing several times at the matter-of-fact response, and Natasha snorted softly, smirking at the scientist's shock. Clint, she knew, might not have actually meant to get the better of the man - he tended to assume that any question posed to him was literal - but there was a faint glint in Clint's eyes that made her wonder.

Coulson, who had watched the exchange with a small smile of his own, turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.

Natasha shrugged. "Extensive knowledge of weapons history was required at our academy," she said simply.

There was no real reason for her to omit the Red Room's name - she assumed that anyone with clearance to work on the hammer would have the clearance to know about their particular situation as well - but it had become habit now.

Coulson nodded in understanding, then turned back to Bigsby who still looked indignant.

"Be sure to keep me posted on your progress, Doctor," he ordered.

It was clearly intended as a dismissal because Coulson didn't wait for a response. He simply started back in the direction of command.

As soon as they reached the tunnels once again, he paused, turning to face them, but an alarm sounded suddenly, cutting off whatever Coulson had been about to say. It was quickly followed by a site-wide announcement: "We have an intruder. Repeat, we have an intruder. West sector. Agents down."

Search lights flared to life, making the area outside the complex even brighter than before, and red emergency lights illuminated the passageways, pulsing with the sound of the sirens.

Coulson's gaze immediately snapped to Clint. "Barton, I want eyes up high. Head to the armory first - a bow and a radio will be waiting for you. Outside, northwest corner, there's a crane. The operator already knows to expect you. Go."

Clint gave a brisk nod and took off at a run, deftly making his way through the other personnel hurrying through the halls.

Coulson turned to her. "Romanoff, southwest sector will be a staging area. Join security there and await further orders."

She gave a nod of her own and sprinted down the tunnel.

She emerged into the open a few minutes later. The rain had become a downpour and it immediately began soaking through her uniform, but she ignored it and kept moving. She spotted the staging area quickly, surprised to find that she recognized the officer in charge: Agent Spence.

He glanced up as she approached. Clearly her arrival wasn't unexpected, though he didn't look pleased.

"Romanoff," he greeted curtly.

He held out a radio earpiece, but when she reached for it, he tightened his grip.

She looked up to meet his eyes.

"Let's get one thing straight, Romanoff," he began. "I don't care that the shrinks have given you the all-clear. I don't trust you. You take one step out of line and I'll be there."

He glared at her, clearly hoping for some sort of reaction on her part.

She didn't give him one.

He scowled at that and released the radio. "I don't trust your boyfriend either," he added. "Make sure he does what he's told."

With that, Spence spun away, already issuing orders to the next group of soldiers to arrive.

Natasha stared down at the radio for a moment, her fingers tightening around it.

Boyfriend.

It wasn't the first time someone had made that assumption. As one rumor had it, she and Clint had fallen in love and run away from the Bratva - or, as some insisted, a remnant of the KGB - and S.H.I.E.L.D. had offered them protection in exchange for the intelligence they could offer.

Spence was one of the few who knew their real origins, but apparently, he believed that the rumors had gotten at least that much right - that she and Clint really were together.

He was wrong.

As she'd told Coulson once, she owed Clint a debt. She was working to repay that debt in the only way she could, and that was all.

She was just trying to balance the scales. Anything else was out of the question.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she tucked the small radio over her ear, then let her gaze roam the sky, squinting against the increasing deluge until she found Clint across the compound. He was already standing in the basket of the crane, bow at the ready, the string taut and set to be released if the command came, his eyes locked on his target below.

"Do you want me to slow him down, sir?" Clint asked, his voice sounding tinny across the open radio channel.

"I'll let you know," Coulson answered.

She could see very little from her vantage point, save the shadowy silhouettes of the agents running down the tunnels to confront the intruder. He eyebrows rose faintly when the wall of one of the tunnels suddenly exploded outward, the form of a limp agent flying through the air, landing in the dirt. He stirred briefly then went still.

The crane was immediately in motion, adjusting Clint's position so that he had a better line of sight, but he didn't fire.

She wondered why Coulson was waiting to give the order.

For a few moments it was quiet, and then two large figures suddenly tumbled through the plastic tarp at the south juncture, rolling down the muddy slope, locked together as they wrestled.

Between the rain and the movement of the fight, it was impossible to make out their features, but she saw that the intruder was broad-shouldered and muscular, dressed in a blue t-shirt and jeans. That struck her as strange, but she dismissed it as unimportant, already assessing the other man.

Judging by his size, she guessed that it was Agent Strickland - few could match his 6' 7" frame. She had sparred with him once or twice, and he was difficult to beat.

The intruder, however, seemed to be holding his own.

Strickland managed to wrap one massive arm around the intruder's throat, but the intruder thrust back with his elbow to break free, stunning Strickland long enough to land two more blows. But, when the intruder tried to pin Strickland down, Strickland threw him off. The intruder landed a few feet away, and both staggered up, struggling to stand on the rain-soaked ground.

Strickland started forward, but the intruder jumped into the air suddenly, kicking out with both feet, sending Strickland sprawling in the mud. Strickland tried to stand again, but the intruder kicked out once more, the blow connecting with Strickland's head.

This time, Strickland came down limp and unmoving.

"Romanoff," Coulson ordered an instant later, "you're up. Disable only. We need to question him."

"Understood."

She took of at a run, rushing to intercept the intruder before he reached the central square and the hammer.

He was reaching up to rip away the plastic sheeting from the wall when he heard her approach and turned to face her.

He was a rugged-looking man with handsome features and blue eyes. He towered over her by nearly a foot, and his blond hair, which was dripping wet and sticking to his forehead, fell just below his chin. He had a short beard as well, though it was difficult to see underneath the mud smeared across his face. He was still out of breath from his fight with Strickland, but he ran his eyes over her from head to toe, his lips twisting wryly, white teeth gleaming in the dark as he smirked.

"You're a lot smaller than the last one."

She rushed at him, her steps pounding the earth, and taking a page out of his book, she launched herself into the air, aiming for his chest with both feet. He staggered back as the blow connected, and she gave him no time to recover, thrusting her elbow up, hitting his chin, forcing his head back, then she spun again, kicking into his abdomen.

She aimed for his head once more, but he blocked her fist with his forearm, all amusement gone from his face.

He grabbed her wrist and twisted, and she grunted as her shoulder strained, but she brought up her knee, striking him in the stomach, and he released her, stumbling back a little, though not enough. Thrusting her leg out, she kicked hard, and this time, her heel met his knee. It was his turn to grunt as the leg nearly crumpled beneath him, and she tried to press her advantage, aiming for his other knee as well, but he'd anticipated that. He swung hard at her head, and she ducked out of the way, dropping and rolling so that she came up behind him.

She jumped up again before he could turn to face her, arching her back so that her feet were pushed into the air first, her calves hooking over his shoulders. She twisted, her legs wrapping around his throat, her weight hanging down his back. Had he been a smaller man her weight would have been enough to drag him to the ground, but the intruder didn't fall even as she tightened her thighs, trying to cut off his airway. He drove his elbow backwards, into her ribs, and pain exploded in her side. The blow was hard enough to wind her, enough that her legs loosened for a second, and that was all he needed.

He threw his torso forward, doubling over, forcing her back over his head. She landed facedown in the mud, a shower of water and dirt exploding around her. What little breath she had left was stolen by the impact, and the intruder's hands were there a moment later, grabbing her shoulders, picking her up as though she weighed nothing at all and throwing her a second time.

She flew through the air and felt herself hit the wall of the central square, the plastic sheeting ripping around her as she went through it and landed inside. Her forehead stuck a hard patch of ground and stars exploded in her vision. She lay stunned for a moment, but then, gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up, blinking hard and tossing the wet, muddy locks of her hair out of the way, ready to stand once again.

The intruder was paying no attention to her now. He had entered the square through the hole her body had made, and his sole focus was on the hammer, an eager smile on his lips. He stepped closer, his right hand wrapping around the handle slowly, almost reverently.

Then he pulled upward, clearly expecting to free the hammer from the rock.

But the hammer stuck fast, and his smile faded, his expression growing increasingly dismayed. He tried again, this time with both hands, pulling hard enough that the muscles, tendons, and veins in his forearms bulged with the effort.

Natasha started forward, hoping to catch him off-guard, but Coulson's voice sounded in her ear: "Romanoff, wait. I want to see this."

Her jaw clenched, but she did as ordered, watching as the man finally gave up, staggering back, his chest heaving. He looked down at his hands for a long moment, as though he didn't recognize them any longer, then turned his face to the sky, heedless of the rain, his features twisted in obvious grief.

"WHY?!" he screamed at last, his voice echoing long and loud, his fists clenched at his sides, his muscles shaking until he was spent. He fell to his knees in the dirt, his shoulders slumped, his head hanging low, water dripping down his face.

"Alright," Coulson said finally. "Show's over. Ground units move in. Barton, stand down."

Natasha heard footsteps on the catwalks above her, and soon, the square was filled with security personnel.

They approached the man cautiously, but he offered no resistance as they reached for his arms, cuffing them roughly behind his back. Instead, he stared dully at the hammer, tears pooling in his eyes as though it had betrayed him.

* * *

Natasha winced faintly as the medic examined her ribs, pushing against them gently, looking for any obvious fractures.

Her side was tender, and the resulting bruise would probably be rather spectacular, but Natasha didn't believe any ribs were broken. She'd had broken ribs in the past, and while painful, this injury did not match that particular sensation.

The medic recommended an x-ray nonetheless.

Natasha agreed, promising that she would visit the infirmary when she returned to the Helicarrier, since S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New Mexico installation boasted only basic medical equipment.

Apparently satisfied with that, the medic helped her role down her undershirt to cover her injured side once again, then handed her an ice pack before leaving to tend to the next Agent in need of her care.

Natasha pressed the pack against her ribs, releasing a breath as the cold began to penetrate the fabric. She shifted a little, trying to find a more comfortable position, then reached up with her free hand to push a lock of hair away from her face. It was still damp to the touch - both from the earlier rain and from the shower she'd taken to wash away the mud. The spare uniform she'd changed into was warm and dry, however, and the medic had offered her a blanket as well. The military issue cloth was stiff and not particularly soft, but it had served well enough to chase away the chilly air filling the medical tent.

A soft tread on the ground made her look up, and she wasn't surprised to find that it was Clint who now stood in front of her. He'd obviously had an opportunity to change as well, because like her, his clothing was dry, but his hair was still wet, droplets of water visible on the short, brown spikes.

Clint said nothing though his eyes raked over her body assessingly, a faint frown marring his features.

Sensing the unspoken question, she shrugged one shoulder - the shoulder opposite her injured ribs. "I'm fine," she assured.

But the frown didn't fade. If anything, it deepened as his gaze dropped to the icepack she was holding then moved back to the bruise she knew was visible near her hairline, the one that promised to darken as time passed.

"I've had worse," she added.

Clint's head tilted, his lips parting as though he were about to respond, but the sound of heavy footsteps made them both turn instead.

Coulson appeared beside them a moment later.

He nodded in greeting. "Romanoff, Barton. I just finished speaking with our guest. He didn't have much to say."

That was hardly shocking news, but Natasha felt a small pang of disappointment. She couldn't deny that she was curious. The man fought like an experienced soldier, but he had broken into a high security installation without any weapons and no equipment, dressed as though he'd simply walked in off the street. His reaction to the hammer had been especially strange.

She would have liked to know who he was.

The Red Room would have already done whatever was needed to persuade him to cooperate, but S.H.I.E.L.D. was not as quick to resort to torture. At least, not the level of torture the Red Room employed. S.H.I.E.L.D. had its own methods, but they were generally used only as a last resort.

Apparently, they hadn't yet reached that point with this man.

Coulson seemed able to sense the direction of her thoughts. "Erik Selvig came to collect him a few minutes ago," he added. "We released him into Selvig's custody."

Natasha frowned, thinking back over the reports she had read when Coulson had first briefed them. "Selvig, one of the physicists whose research you confiscated?"

"The same. Selvig claims that our intruder is a Dr. Donald Blake, a colleague of his who was upset by our interference. Blake's an M.D. and a physicist, apparently."

Natasha scoffed at that, her ribs giving a small twinge. "Unlikely. He's had training. A lot of it."

"I agree. We're following them now."

Natasha thought for a moment, then nodded in understanding. Letting the man go was a risk, but they might very well learn more from observing him than they would have from hours of interrogation.

"Will Clint and I be running surveillance on them as well?"

"No," Coulson answered, and for the first time, something like a grimace broke through his usually composed mask. "You'll both be returning to the Helicarrier."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. Judging by the finality of his tone, he didn't mean that they would be returning only for the x-ray the medic had ordered. "You're taking us off the mission."

This time Coulson sighed. "Yes. This may be even bigger than we realized initially, and there are…certain individuals who don't yet feel you should be granted access to such sensitive information."

"You don't agree."

Coulson smiled faintly and didn't deny it. "Those certain individuals outrank me," he said simply. "But, if anything, you've both proven that you're too valuable to be sidelined any longer. You'll be on active duty within the month. Congratulations."

Natasha gave a brief dip of her head in acknowledgment, watching as Coulson left, feeling an odd mix of irritation and relief.

Being pulled off the mission at this point was galling, though she understood why members of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s leadership were suspicious. A skilled asset was a dangerous asset; S.H.I.E.L.D. always had to prepare for the possibility that their own people would turn traitor, and two operatives from the Red Room probably seemed all the more likely to bite the hand that fed them.

But, at the very least, S.H.I.E.L.D. was willing to trust them to an extent, and she would be glad to return to duty. The Helicarrier had become more and more confining as the months passed, and rigorous training aside, the forced inactivity had proven to be just as difficult. Clint, she knew, had felt the same, his restlessness showing in small ways - the twitch of his fingers, the clench of the muscles in his arms when they sparred, the faster pace of his walk.

Having to wait a few more weeks wasn't ideal, but, she supposed, they would have to take what they could get.

Pushing away the blanket wrapped around her, Natasha set the icepack aside and stood, reaching for the long-sleeve shirt the medic had left on a nearby chair, but Clint moved to pick it up before she could, handing it to her silently.

The move caught her by surprise, and for a moment their eyes met.

This time, she was certain that she hadn't imagined the smallest hint of a smile.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SAF is the "location identifier" for the Santa Fe Municipal Airport. :)
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	17. Compromised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 17 **

_One year later (2012)_

The scientists eyed her warily as she passed.

She nodded at them in return, and they quickly resumed their work. Natasha snorted softly. Despite Fury's repeated assurances that she and Clint were there only to monitor security, the scientists seemed convinced that there was more to it than that.

Clint made them particularly uneasy since he preferred to remain up in the rafters, watching them all from above. The scientists had taken to calling it his "nest" as soon as they'd learned his codename.

Like her, Clint had chosen to continue using the codename the Red Room had given him.

In Russian, he was Ястреб, the Hawk…or War Hawk, if one chose the less common meaning of the Russian word, a subtlety lost in the English equivalent. It was an obvious play on Clint's former stage name; perhaps one of Clint's handlers had known of the moniker and thought it fitting enough to keep.

She paused, glancing up to the catwalks where Clint was sitting now, his arms folded over the railings, his chin resting on his wrists, his eyes intent on the goings-on below. It was almost strange to see him without his bow, but given the scientists' unease, he had been ordered to keep it the armory, leaving him only with his sidearm.

As if seconding that thought, a particularly jumpy scientist saw that she had stopped and nervously shuffled a few steps away, so Natasha resumed her walk. She didn't want to start hearing complaints about the Black Widow lurking in corners.

Rounding a bank of particularly large monitors, she started a circuit of the other side of the lab, allowing her gaze to wander.

The underground lab was quite large, a vast space made of concrete and corrugated metal, part of a refitted military base. Equipment filled the center of the room, arranged in long, straight rows, and various workstations were separated by metal desks bearing large computer monitors, keyboards, and screens connected by looping wires. Blade towers from the lab's supercomputer lined the perimeter, their red cases standing out sharply among the sea of gray and black that made up the rest of the lab.

But, it was the glowing, blue cube that was clearly the focus of the room. It sat in the front of the lab, suspended upright by rings of metal, wires, cables, and coils, shining a brilliant, neon blue, crackling every few moments, small, blue sparks visible at its center. Stretched out from the structure housing the cube was a long, metal walkway lined by thick cables the size of her arm. The cables were held up by a series of steel hooks that sat at an incline, looking strangely decorative despite their utilitarian purpose. The metal pathway led to a small platform, surrounded by two rows of six curving panels that resembled the solar panels one might find on a roof. The rows were arranged in half-circles, and the first consisted of small panels located directly around the platform, while the second consisted of much larger panels on stands that sat farther back. They were clearly designed to reflect whatever energy the cube emitted, though the structure seemed incomplete as of yet.

She wondered what would be added to it as time went on. Selvig would have been able to tell her. Of all the scientists, he was the most accepting of their presence - if annoyed to have them hovering over his shoulder - but she didn't want to upset that tentative balance simply to satisfy her curiosity. He was almost an ally. At the very least, he hadn't objected when Fury had first assigned them to Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S.

The World Council, however, had tried to overrule Fury's decision and assign someone else, someone deemed to be less of a security risk. Fury had eventually won that particular argument, citing the year she and Clint had already spent in the field. Their mission record was excellent, and the level of difficulty in their assignments had increased exponentially as Fury had become more confident in both their abilities and their loyalty. (Natasha suspected that Coulson might have had something to do with that as well, though he'd never admitted to anything.)

But, while the World Security Council had finally agreed to their assignment to Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S., they had absolutely refused to consider either her or Clint as possible candidates for The Avengers Initiative. Coulson had been the one to approach them about the program, explaining its intended purpose. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. had already compiled extensive psychological profiles on them both, he had hoped that would expedite their approval, but of course, that hadn't turned out to be the case.

In the end, it hadn't mattered, since the Initiative had been scrapped anyway - perhaps all of the possible candidates were believed to be too unpredictable to be successfully controlled. It was an oddly satisfying thought, though undoubtedly, the World Security Council would not agree.

Coulson had never confirmed or denied anything, but she assumed that members of the World Security Council were the "certain individuals" who were behind their removal from the Thor mission the year before.

Thor.

She had apparently fought the Norse god of thunder. She supposed that his reaction to the hammer made a great deal more sense when considered in that light, but she still found it difficult to believe.

Aliens. Alternate dimensions. The Tesseract.

That had certainly been one of the strangest briefings she could recall.

But Coulson had sworn that it was true and granted both her and Clint clearance to view footage of the fight that had devastated the small town of Puente Antiguo.

She wondered if the Red Room realized that the universe was such a vast place. If they did, they had not taught her to believe the same. Then again, a pet was less likely to break out of its cage if it didn't know that something else - something more - lay beyond.

She might not have broken out of her own cage at all if it hadn't been for Clint.

The thought brought her gaze back to the rafters. Clint didn't move, and he was too far away for her to see his eyes, but somehow, she knew that he was watching her.

A very faint smile curved her lips in answer, but a sudden announcement from one of the nearby technicians drew her attention:

"I'm reading an energy spike."

A few of the other white-clad scientists handling the night-shift immediately answered, calling out the readings they were now detecting as well. They sounded more puzzled than alarmed, but any alteration in the cube's status was potentially serious, so Selvig was notified. Only a few minutes passed before he came loping back into the lab looking rumpled and bleary-eyed, but all traces of weariness vanished the moment he got a glimpse of the screens monitoring the cube's output.

"That shouldn't be possible," Selvig muttered. "That's not just a spike, it's a surge." Frowning, he tapped a few keys on the keyboard, but whatever the result was, he looked no happier.

"Doctor?" Natasha asked. "What is it?"

"You'll know when I do. Bennett!" he called, waving a hand to the skittish scientist who'd moved away from Natasha earlier. "Run a diagnostic, now. I need to know if this reading is correct."

The other man nodded jerkily and ducked behind a monitor.

"All systems check out, Doctor," he said after a moment. "I'm not showing any anomalies here."

Selvig sighed. "I was afraid you would say that. Alright, Nelson, Ross, we're gonna have to try to lock this down."

"Doctor," Natasha pressed again.

"We've detected an energy spike - a big one and it's growing," Selvig explained quickly, his eyes still darting between his keyboard and the screen in front of him. "I can't say why or what it means. Right now, I just don't know. It might be a fluke. Give me a few minutes and I'll be able to tell you more."

Natasha nodded, moving back to let the scientists work, though she pressed the comm at her ear. "This is Romanoff. We may have a situation."

* * *

They did.

The energy surge had continued, and Selvig had become desperate enough to try shutting off the power manually. It had flickered to life again a moment later.

Three other attempts had ended the same way.

When it had become clear that Selvig's efforts had been unsuccessful, Coulson had ordered a base-wide evacuation of all non-essential personnel. It had begun as a precaution, but Natasha could see that the scientists were growing increasingly frantic.

Coulson had alerted Director Fury an hour ago, and his chopper was due to arrive soon.

Natasha had joined Clint up in the rafters while they waited; she could watch just as well from above, and it seemed wise not to make the scientists any more anxious than they already were.

Fury called for them almost as soon as he appeared. "Barton, Romanoff. Report."

There was a maintenance ladder along the North wall, but they used repelling lines instead, dropping to the floor and quickly making their way to the Fury.

He started walking as soon as they reached him, clearly expecting that they would fall into place beside him. "Can you tell me anything that will explain this?" he demanded.

"I've seen nothing to suggest that there's been any tampering," Natasha returned evenly.

"Agreed, sir," Clint added. "No one's come or gone, and Selvig's clean. No contacts, no IMs."

Fury sighed. "Then what's causing this?"

They stopped walking a short distance from the cube, and Natasha opened her mouth to answer, but it was Clint who responded first.

"Nothing on our end, sir."

Natasha blinked, surprised, and Fury seemed to feel the same way.

"On our end," Fury repeated.

Clint nodded. "The cube is a doorway to the other end of space. Doors open from both sides."

Natasha hadn't considered that possibility, and judging by his expression, neither had Fury. But Clint, she had learned, sometime saw things that no one else did.

"Doctor," a blonde-haired scientist called, "it's spiking again."

Selvig hurried across the room, bending down to examine the screen, his brow furrowed, worry clear in his eyes. He pressed a few keys in quick succession, then grimaced and tried again.

A soft electronic whine began to build, and Natasha's gaze darted to the cube. The glow had brightened considerably, blue sparks expanding to flicker over the metal surrounding it.

"Not yet…" Selvig muttered.

A low rumble followed, almost like thunder, and then a flash of blue arced out from the cube, once, twice, and a third time.

The whole facility shook.

There was nothing anyone could do but stare as the cube surged again, streaks of blue shooting into the air more rapidly now, growing larger and brighter, the atmosphere charged to the point that Natasha could feel it on her skin.

The blue energy suddenly began to coalesce, forming a vortex that seemed to originate in the center of the cube itself. The noise was incredible, as though the drone of a thousand generators had been amplified, and the ground, the air, all seemed to vibrate, the smell of ozone so strong that it seemed to burn her nostrils.

A thick beam of light suddenly shot from the cube, stretching out over the metal pathway. Natasha wondered if it would just keep going, cutting through endless layers of concrete and metal, but instead it seemed to punch a hole through the air itself, stopping just above the small, elevated platform, the air rippling with blue as a circular opening appeared and then expanded. For an instant, Natasha thought she saw a glimpse of stars, but then the beam stopped, and the energy seemed to mass, intensifying and then exploding outwards, rushing through the room like a tidal wave.

Natasha threw up an arm to protect her face, expecting to feel pain as the blast reached her, but the energy simply washed over her skin, leaving it tingling and a little numb as the wave dissipated.

She blinked, trying to clear her eyes, then lowered her arm and looked around.

The room seemed relatively unscathed, though remnants of blue energy were inching up the walls, and smaller tongues of blue flame were flickering and dying like the embers of a recently extinguished fire. The cube still glowed brightly, sparking every few minutes, blue haze rising from it like smoke.

But it was the platform that held her attention.

It seemed to contain a pillar of blue fire, but the blaze was gradually dying down, and as the blue faded, she recognized the figure of a man. He was kneeling, curled in a ball, his head resting on his knees, one arm wrapped around his bent legs. But as the last of the blue disappeared, he slowly raised his head.

He had dark hair that fell to his shoulders, though it was slicked back from his forehead, the ends curling outwards. He was pale, and droplets of sweat clung to his skin, but it was the mad gleam in his blue eyes that she saw first, a Cheshire grin twisting his features.

The smile faded as he stood up slowly, revealing the brown leather armor and green cloak he wore. Golden gauntlets wrapped his forearms, and matching bands protected his biceps. He held something in his right hand - a short staff made of some kind of metal. It was golden in color with a blue stone set amidst a series of curved spikes, the longest of which curved over the jewel protectively. The stone was a perfect match for the blue of the cube, glowing with the same intensity, and blue haze still rose from it.

Security personnel began to move in, guns raised, and the man's gaze swept the room, clearly trying to determine where the greatest threat lay.

"Sir," Fury called, his voice ringing out across the room, "please put down the spear!"

The man paused, glancing at the staff in his hand, and that was all the warning they had.

He extended the staff, and a streak of blue light arced across the room, headed straight for them.

Clint was closer to Fury than she was, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him push Fury out of the way of the beam. She had no choice but to leap the other way, diving across room, landing facedown. She could hear other blasts being fired over her head, the sounds of bullets ricocheting, and cries of pain from guards and scientists alike. An explosion of sparks suggested that one of the computer stations had been hit, and that was followed by the distinctive _shink_ of metal blades hitting their intended targets. Obviously, the scepter wasn't the man's only weapon.

The room fell abruptly silent, the eerie quiet disrupted only by the sound of the damaged electronic equipment that was still sparking.

Natasha turned her head just enough that she could look back behind her. Clint was laying facedown as well, clearly stunned, though he was stirring already. Fury was unmoving, but he was breathing, and she couldn't see any visible wounds.

Footsteps began to echo through the room, and she froze, closing her eyes and feigning unconsciousness.

She had simply hoped to take the man by surprise, perhaps attacking him from behind, but as the footsteps drew nearer, she realized that his intended path would bring him very close to her. She waited until he was beside her, and then she was in motion, kicking out, sweeping his legs out from under him.

He fell back, and she leapt to her feet, but the man was upright again almost as quickly, still holding his staff, and when she swung at him with her fist, he grabbed her wrist with his free hand, apparently amused.

"Ah, the fiery one," he murmured. "I should have known."

She tried to pull her arm back, but his grip was hard and unforgiving, unnaturally strong. Her other hand shot down to her side, reaching for the Glock strapped to her thigh, but the moment she gripped it, the man struck out with the staff, sending the gun skittering away. She kicked out, hitting him in the stomach. It was like kicking a brick wall.

The man's smirk grew and his grip tightened. She grunted at the bruising force and tried in vain to pull away again.

The man opened his mouth, about to speak, but a round of gun shots interrupted him, the bullets pinging off the armor on his back. It was enough that he stiffened a little. He turned around, clearly annoyed, and she followed his gaze to see that Clint was crouched behind him, his side arm drawn.

The man's grin suddenly turned feral, and then a second later, Natasha was being thrown through the air. She felt her back strike the shelves on one of the metal desks, the wind driven from her lungs with the force of the impact. She must have hit the desk high enough that her weight had caused it to tip, because she crashed to the floor, landing atop the fallen work station, the metal unforgiving beneath her.

She needed to get up, but her back was burning with pain, and her lungs were already screaming for the air they'd been denied. Dazed, she managed to roll over, off of the desk, landing on the floor on her stomach, the jolt of the small drop enough to send spikes of pain through her back yet again. She grit her teeth and tried to push herself to her feet, but her muscles simply wouldn't cooperate.

She looked up, her gaze finding Clint automatically.

The man had already reached him and had stopped Clint's blows as easily as he had stopped hers. When Clint tried to bring up his gun once more, the man's hand caught his wrist.

The man tilted his head in apparent consideration. "You have no heart," he declared. "No passion. Your mind is already broken. Still, you may be of use to me yet."

The scepter he held was suddenly descending, and Natasha redoubled her efforts to stand, but her limbs were still ignoring her mind's commands and she could only watch as the scepter touched Clint's chest. She had thought the man might impale him, but when the tip of the uppermost spike brushed his sternum, Clint stiffened with something like surprise. Small tendrils of blue climbed up his neck and into his face until they reached his eyes. For a moment, his eyes were entirely black, like his pupils had been blown impossibly wide, but an instant later they shifted to a strange, iridescent blue.

Her breath had gradually been returning, but it escaped her again as Clint blinked once, then holstered his gun and stood to attention.

The intruder smirked in apparent satisfaction before turning away, obviously convinced that Clint was no threat to him now.

Natasha's eyes darted back to Clint, hoping that the man's overconfidence would be his downfall, but Clint was still, his eyes following the man as though awaiting orders.

One member of the security detail had staggered to his feet, but he was clearly still dazed because he offered no resistance as the intruder appeared in front of him and touched his chest with the scepter as well. Like Clint, his eyes turned black and then an eerie blue.

Selvig had gotten to his feet, beginning to quietly check on his staff. He stopped, kneeling by the blonde-haired woman, his fingers brushing her neck, his features grim. Either the intruder hadn't noticed him, or he'd dismissed him as unimportant, because he didn't react.

Finally managing to push herself up to her knees, Natasha turned to see that Fury had risen as well. He'd taken the cube from its housing, obviously hoping to leave with it before he was noticed.

But when Fury locked the cube inside a briefcase, the room echoed with the sound of metal clips snapping shut.

The intruder turned at last.

"Please don't," he said simply. "I still need that."

Fury had started to walk away, but the man's words brought him to a halt. He remained motionless, his back to the intruder. "This doesn't have to get any messier."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Of course it does," he retorted. "I've come too far for anything else."

Fury turned at last and the man lifted his chin.

"I am Loki of Asgard, and I am burdened with glorious purpose."

Selvig stood, frowning. "Loki? Brother of Thor?"

Natasha's eyes darted back to the man - to Loki. He clearly differed from his brother in more than appearance. Thor had injured several security personnel in his attempt to reclaim his hammer, but none of the injuries had been critical. Loki obviously didn't share the same self-control. Judging by the number of bodies still littering the laboratory floor, he'd killed at least a dozen.

Fury seemed to share her line of thought because his good eye narrowed, but he held up a hand, as though suggesting restraint. "We have no quarrel with your people."

Loki scoffed, apparently unconcerned. "An ant has no quarrel with a boot."

Fury cocked his head. "You planning to step on us?"

This time, Loki smiled.

"I come with glad tidings, of a world made free."

"Free from what?"

"Freedom. Freedom is life's great lie. Once you accept that, in your heart…" he spun quickly, pressing the scepter to Selvig's chest before he could react, "…you will know peace."

Selvig's eyes now glowed the same blue as Clint's.

Fury snorted. "Yeah, you say peace, I kind of think you mean the other thing."

"Sir," Clint's voice startled her. "The ceiling."

That drew all of their gazes to the lab's roof, where she saw that the remains of the energy released by the cube had gathered like storm clouds above them, the mass of blue light writhing and churning, flickering more rapidly as the moments passed.

She silently cursed her inattention; she'd been too focused on the intruder - on Clint - to see it.

"It's the portal," Selvig interjected suddenly, walking over to check one of the monitors. "It's collapsing in on itself. You've got maybe two minutes before this goes critical."

"Well, then…" Loki prompted.

Clint drew his side arm and fired. Fury grunted as the bullet struck him in the chest, and he dropped to the ground. It was the distraction Natasha needed. She still had one of her Glocks and she reached for it, aiming for Loki's head. But Clint was suddenly beside her, kicking her arm. The bullet went wide, and the heel of his hand struck her sternum, pushing her back to the floor.

Immediately, she found herself staring into the barrel of Clint's gun. She looked at it for a moment, then her gaze moved up to the unnatural blue of his eyes.

It was as though the last two years hadn't happened. He looked at her with no feeling. No recognition.

She hadn't realized how much that had come to mean to her - the subtle signs that the boy from her memories wasn't entirely lost.

Now, there was nothing.

"Leave her," Loki barked impatiently.

Clint lowered the gun and moved to follow. Natasha rolled to her feet again, ready to sprint after him, but the facility shook, small bits of stone falling from the ceiling above, and she ran towards Fury instead.

"Director?"

He was grimacing in pain and had a hand pressed to his chest, but there was no blood - the body armor he wore had done its job.

He motioned for her to help him up, already reaching for the radio at his belt.

"Hill?" he grit out. "Do you copy? Barton has turned."

Natasha stiffened, ready to object, but there was no time for it. Pulling Fury to his feet she started in the direction of the surface.

"They have the Tesseract," Fury added as they stumbled from the lab. "Shut them down!"

She heard distant gunshots and knew it had to be Hill - Maria Hill tolerated her and Clint, but she had made no secret of the fact that she didn't trust them, and she would have undoubtedly taken Fury's words at face value.

The facility shook again and sparks erupted around them, pipes dropping from the ceiling, missing them by inches. Natasha broke into a run, Fury doing the same beside her.

"I need a chopper!" Fury shouted into the radio. "South platform! Now!"

Only static answered, but someone must have heard him because when they reached the set of double doors leading to the facility's helipad, a helicopter was waiting, the rotor spinning steadily, ready to take off in an instant.

"We're clear upstairs, sir," Coulson said, his voice echoing over the radio. "You need to go."

It was an unnecessary warning. They shoved their way through the doors without slowing, reaching the helicopter just as the pad began to crumble beneath them.

Fury jumped into the chopper and Natasha dove behind him.

The chopper rose into the air, the concrete of the helipad splintering and falling a few seconds later.

The rest of the facility followed.

It began with a low _boom_ reverberating deep in the earth, and then the ground rippled, the shockwave spreading from the point of origin, flames bursting into the air as gas and power lines ruptured. Then, piece by piece, the facility fell away, dropping into a pit so deep that the bottom was lost in the darkness.

Fury watched the destruction with his jaw clenched, and she wasn't surprised when he ordered the chopper to follow the road that led out of the base. Clint had been leading Loki in the direction of the underground parking facility. The end of the tunnel was one of the few structures still standing, and if they'd made it out, that was where they would emerge.

For a moment, there was nothing, and Natasha wondered if Hill had succeeded in stopping them after all - if Clint was now buried under several thousand tons of rock and rubble.

Her stomach lurched in a way that had little to do with the movement of the chopper, but before she could examine the sensation, a truck sped out of the tunnel entrance.

Loki was standing in the back, clinging to the roof, his the blue stone on his scepter still shining, acting like a beacon.

But the driver - Clint, she knew it could only be Clint - spun the vehicle away from the road, and into the rough terrain, sending clouds of dust into the air.

Fury motioned for the pilot to circle around, and the pilot obeyed, their course bringing them to confront the truck head-on. The helicopter had been intended for transport only and had no armaments of its own, so it hovered in the air as the truck drove towards them, while Fury slid the door open, pulling his sidearm and taking aim.

Natasha moved into the seat on the other side of the door, across from Fury, and did the same, drawing her back-up pistol.

Fury's bullets were aimed at the driver - at Clint. It was the logical move. Disable - kill - the driver, and their chances of stopping Loki increased. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then aimed for the truck's tires instead - a blowout could disable the vehicle just as thoroughly.

Her bullets pinged off the truck's armor, several hitting the hubcap, but the tire remained intact. Fury's shots struck the windshield on the driver's side, and the bullet-resistant glass fractured but didn't break.

A streak of blue shot from Loki's staff, and an instant later the energy ripped through the chopper, hitting the aft section just in front of the tail, sending the air craft into a dizzying spin.

Natasha clung to the open doorway, the world around her a blur of fire and metal, the ground rushing up to meet them. It was impossible to judge the remaining distance, but knowing that she had no choice, she tightened her grip on the doorway, and pushed herself out of the chopper's open door into the air beyond. A flash of black beside her told her that Fury had made the same decision, but she had no more time to think as she tucked and rolled, trying to lessen the impact of the landing.

She still hit hard, her already bruised back screaming anew as she tumbled end over end in the dirt. Her momentum carried her farther than she'd expected, and when she finally stopped moving, her breath hitched as she tried to uncurl and force herself to stand. Her legs shook for a moment but she locked her knees and pushed herself into something like a run until she reached the Director's side. Fury had clearly landed better than she had. He was winded and gritting his teeth, but he was already perched on one knee, gun raised, firing at the truck as it disappeared into the distance.

The truck, however, was already too far away, and Fury lowered the gun as he stood, chest heaving.

Natasha spared a glance for the chopper behind them. It had landed on its side, its rotors bent and broken in the dirt, flames still burning in the tail section. She saw no movement from the cockpit and wondered if the pilot were even still alive.

"Director?" Coulson's voice, sounding deceptively calm, issued over the radio still hooked to Fury's belt. "Director Fury, do you copy?"

Fury snatched up the radio. "The Tesseract is with a hostile force," he said in lieu of a response. "Romanoff's with me, but I have a man down." He looked at the chopper. "Hill?" he questioned.

Hill's answer was strained, but steady. "A lot of men still under. I don't know how many survivors."

Fury grimaced. "Sound a general call. I want every living soul not working rescue looking for that briefcase."

"Roger that."

"Coulson," Fury added, "get back to base. This is a Level Seven." His voice dropped, his fingers tightening on the radio. "As of right now, we are at war."

There was a long moment of silence.

"What do we do?" Coulson asked.

Fury didn't answer, just lowered the radio slowly, his good eye still staring out into the desert as though it contained the answers he needed.

"We do the only thing we can," he said at last, raising the radio once more. "We put together a response team."

"Sir," Hill began, sounding reluctant, "the World Security Council won't-"

"I'll deal with that. You have your orders. Fury out."

He hooked the radio back on his belt then jogged in the direction of the fallen chopper. Natasha followed but he reached the wreck first, and being careful to remain clear of the flames still engulfing the tail, he bent down to study the cockpit.

He stood up again a moment later, giving a single shake of his head.

The pilot was dead, then, like she'd assumed.

Fury took a couple of quick steps away from the chopper, a muscle working along his jaw, head tilted back to gaze up at the night sky.

When he turned back to look at her, his voice was sharp. Demanding.

"Romanoff. Explain to me _exactly_ what you were thinking back there."

Her spine straightened instinctively at the tone of reprimand. She didn't need to ask him to clarify. If she'd aimed for Clint like Fury had, they might have hit him, and that was why she hadn't done it.

She had no excuse.

As if he were able to read her thoughts, the Director scoffed. "You're the last person I expected to let personal feelings get in the way of doing your job. Barton could have killed us both."

"But he didn't," she answered evenly.

Fury's eye narrowed at that, and knowing she was skirting the edges of insubordination, she continued.

"Back in the lab, he knew you were wearing a vest, but he still shot center mass. And he had more than enough time to kill me." True, Loki had called him away, but it took only a second to pull a trigger. He'd had ample opportunity. "Whatever Loki did to Clint, he's still there."

Fury stared at her for a moment then shook his head. "Maybe. But right now, all I care about is the fact that he's in the hands of the enemy. Cooperating _with_ the enemy."

"Against his will."

"You know as well as I do that Barton doesn't have much _will_ to begin with."

That was true, loath as she was to admit it. Over the last year, Clint had gradually become more expressive when he spoke, more animated. They were subtle changes, small enough that few probably recognized them for what they were. But, questioning orders, disobeying a commander…those ideas never even entered into the realm of possibility.

Fury sighed heavily. "Romanoff, we'll get him back if we can, but that can't be our priority. Against his will or not, Barton is still a threat, and he's aiding a man intent on wiping us out." Fury stepped closer, his gaze suddenly boring into her. "You find yourself in another situation like the one on the chopper, then you _take the shot_. Is that clear?"

Natasha gave a curt nod. "Yes, sir."

Fury looked as though he might say more, but his radio crackled on his belt and he reached for it.

"Director," Coulson began, "rescue teams are in place. Hill's overseeing them, and another team's en route to you now. I'll be back at base within the hour."

"Good. Debriefing will be at 0500, then I want you in Calcutta ASAP. We'll need Banner."

"What about Stark?"

Fury paused, then glanced over at Natasha, smirking darkly. "Romanoff gets Stark."

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	18. From Bad to Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 18 **

Stark Tower was largely empty.

Members of the janitorial staff were vacuuming a nearby office, and a few of Stark's employees still lingered at their desks, lit by the glow of computer screens, but it was late enough in the evening that, for the most part, the building was quiet.

Natasha was dressed to blend in with the few remaining workers, wearing high heels, a fitted blue blazer, and a matching skirt. At her side, she carried a sleek, black electronic file that resembled a laptop, and a comm unit was tucked over her left ear, hidden behind her hair. It was silent for the moment, but if she turned it on, she knew it would be filled with chatter from the three-member surveillance team stationed outside the building, keeping tabs on Stark's whereabouts.

A S.H.I.E.L.D. tech walked beside her, dressed in charcoal gray pants and a white dress shirt rolled up at the elbow. He had short brown hair and glasses, and carried a briefcase that hid the computer equipment he'd brought with him.

Together, they turned down a long corridor, footsteps echoing on the hard floor. They paused when they came to a single door located at the end of the hallway. A keypad was mounted beside it, a security light glowing a faint red. The tech set down his briefcase and opened it with a flick of his thumbs, withdrawing a small device no bigger than a flash drive. He pressed it to the side of the keypad, and an instant later the security light turned green, the door unlocking with a faint click.

The tech pocketed the device and closed the briefcase.

He opened the door and they both stepped through it; behind it was a second corridor, this one much shorter, and the doors to Stark's private elevator were located at the end.

It was tempting to simply head straight for Stark's penthouse, but Natasha knew that might very well cost her what little goodwill she could expect. So, instead, she reached for the phone in her pocket and quickly dialed Stark's number.

The phone rang three times before it was picked up.

"You've reached Tony Stark's personal line," a cultured, British voice answered. It had to be the AI. Stark probably had him screening his calls. "How may I help you?"

"This is Agent Natasha Romanoff with S.H.I.E.L.D. I need to speak with Mr. Stark immediately."

There was a pause. Then, an instant later: "Agent Romanoff, I'm afraid that Mr. Stark isn't in at the moment. If you would like to leave a message, Mr. Stark will contact you as soon as possible."

Natasha muted the phone and touched the radio on her opposite ear. "The AI claims Stark's not there."

"Negative," a member of the surveillance team answered. "Stark just landed on the building's southeast side."

She raised the phone once again. "I need to speak with Stark. Now."

There was another pause and then the line went dead.

That wasn't really unexpected - Stark's file described him as uncooperative, among other things - but Natasha felt a pang of irritation nonetheless. She snapped the phone shut and glanced over at the tech, nodding to give him the go-ahead. He knelt down, this time removing a miniaturized laptop from the briefcase. Then, he reached for the panel beside the elevator and used a small screwdriver to detach the case, exposing a series of wires. After connecting the panel to his laptop with a small cable, he sat down on the floor, settled the computer in his lap, and began to type.

Within a minute, the doors to Stark's private elevator opened and Natasha stepped inside, holding up her phone. "I'll call him again," she told the tech. "The call needs to go through."

The tech nodded, his fingers moving rapidly over the keys once more.

The doors closed, and the elevator rose, taking her swiftly to Stark's floor. When she was certain that she had waited long enough, she redialed Stark's number.

This time, he answered it unhappily. "You have reached the life model decoy of Tony Stark, please leave a message."

Natasha didn't even bother responding to that. She shut the phone and waited while the doors of the elevator opened to reveal Stark's penthouse.

She recognized Stark immediately, both from his S.H.I.E.L.D. file and from various shots she had seen of him in the press. He had short dark hair and dark eyes, accented with a carefully sculpted goatee, and he wore black pants and a black long sleeve shirt, the blue glow of his arc reactor visible through the fabric on his chest. He was kneeling in front of a couch, facing a seated woman who Natasha knew to be Virginia "Pepper" Potts. Potts had strawberry blonde hair that fell a little past her shoulders, curling at the ends to frame her face. Her eyes were blue, and she had a light dusting of freckles over her nose which her make-up failed to hide completely. She was dressed casually, with a white cotton shirt that buttoned in the front and a pair of denim shorts.

Both Stark and Potts were holding champagne. Well, Natasha supposed, that at least explained Stark's reluctance to see her. Not that Stark actually needed a reason to be difficult.

"We don't have time for this, Mr. Stark," Natasha told him simply. "S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't send me here on a whim."

Stark rolled his eyes.

It was Potts who looked uncertain. "Oh," Potts began. "Please, come in, Agent…?" she trailed off, the question clear.

"Romanoff," Natasha supplied, stepping into the penthouse.

Stark and Potts both stood and walked over to meet her, but Stark was still frowning. "Where's Agent Coulson?" he demanded.

"He's on another assignment. Director Fury sent me in his place."

Stark's dark look faded as he studied her, his eyes traveling over her appreciatively. "Hm. Remind me to thank him."

"Tony!" Potts protested.

"Sorry, Pep. Reflex." Stark cleared his throat. "I meant to say, Agent Romanoff, that I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I'm off the clock. If it's really that important, official consulting hours are between eight and five every other Thursday."

"This isn't a consultation."

"Is this about the Avengers Initiative?" Potts asked curiously.

Natasha glanced at her sharply.

"Which I...I know nothing about," Potts amended too late, blushing a little.

Stark scoffed. "The Avengers Initiative was scrapped, I thought. And I didn't even qualify."

"Neither did I," Natasha answered.

Stark's eyebrows rose at that. "They were considering you for the program? What exactly would your superpower be?" He paused, pursing his lips, letting his eyes wander over her figure once more. "Oh, no, wait, I bet I can guess…"

Potts rolled her eyes and gave Stark an exasperated look.

Stark grimaced. "Yeah. Sorry again. Forget that last bit." He cleared his throat uneasily, then glanced back at Natasha. "So, what did they say about you? Volatile, self-obsessed, doesn't play well with others…? 'Cause that sounds familiar."

Natasha gave him a bland smile. "I'm too great of a security risk."

Starks eyebrows rose. "Huh. Well, that's impressive, I guess, though I'm particularly fond of 'volatile' myself. So, let me get this straight - right now, S.H.I.E.L.D. is desperate enough to want help from dangerous, unstable people like us? That doesn't sound good."

"It's not." She held the electronic file out to Stark. "You'll find everything you need to know in here."

Stark frowned at the file for a moment, then turned comically pleading eyes to Potts who huffed and set her champagne down on a nearby table, stepping forward to take the file herself before passing it to Stark.

"Don't mind him," Potts offered. "He has issues."

Stark scowled at that, but he set down his own champagne and accepted the file nonetheless. He opened it, then walked over to a work station on the other side of the room. "Miss Potts," he called, motioning for her to join him, "got a minute?"

Potts offered Natasha an apologetic smile. "Excuse me."

She hurried over to Stark.

They lowered their voices as they spoke, but not quiet enough.

"I thought we were having a moment," Stark began, frowning again as he started scrolling through the contents of the file.

"The moment ended several moments ago," Potts retorted wryly.

"Was it the twelve percent comment or the flirting?"

"Both. Besides, this seems serious." Potts leaned down to examine the file for herself. "What is all of this?"

"This is, uh…This." With a flick of his hands, Stark sent the files up onto the electronic screens in front of him.

Their voices dropped again after that, and Natasha couldn't make out the rest of their conversation, but whatever was said, it ended in a kiss - apparently, Stark was forgiven.

Potts left Stark's side and started for the elevator, offering a polite smile as she went. "It was nice to meet you, Agent Romanoff. Please give my best to Phil the next time you see him."

Stark turned around. "Phil?" he repeated, sounding incredulous.

Potts's smile took on a mischievous edge, but she didn't answer as she reached for the elevator controls, closing the doors before Stark had time to question her further.

Stark scowled for a moment, then turned back around to continue searching through the file Natasha had given him.

"We'll need you to join us as soon as possible, Mr. Stark," Natasha pressed.

He waved a hand without looking back at her, which she assumed was his version of a response.

"In fact, Mr. Stark, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me now."

That finally got Stark's attention. His head shot up in a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.

When she'd spoken to Coulson before he'd left for Calcutta, he'd suggested that she not push Stark too much, that he was more likely to cooperate if he was allowed to do so on his own time.

But, as she'd told Stark, they didn't  _have_  time. Clint didn't have time. And if Stark's casual attitude was anything to go by, it could be hours, even days before Stark finally felt like gracing S.H.I.E.L.D. with his presence.

Stark snorted. "Am I under arrest, Agent Romanoff?"

"No."

"Then, no, I'm not coming with you. Door's that way." He pointed at the elevator.

"I'm afraid I have to insist."

Stark raised an eyebrow at that. "Well, excuse me for channeling my inner nine-year-old here, but - you can't make me."

He was probably right, galling as it was to admit. In an even physical match, Natasha could easily best him, but if he managed to stall her long enough to put on the suit, she wouldn't stand much of a chance. Moreover, getting in a fight with Stark would not help her gain the World Security Council's trust.

But, oddly enough, she didn't particularly care about any of that right now.

They needed Stark if they were going to get Clint back.

"I can try," she said simply.

At that, Stark finally turned around to face her fully, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why is this so important to you?" he demanded. "You don't strike me as the type to suck up to your bosses, so that's not it. And I doubt you're just that dedicated to your job, so what is it?"

Natasha grit her teeth. "Someone I know is involved."

"It's Barton, isn't it?"

Natasha wasn't quite able to conceal her surprise.

Stark smirked faintly. "I read fast."

Clint was, of course, a part of the report Fury had arranged for Stark's perusal, though it included only the most basic information about his past and his…usurpation by Loki. Still, apparently that had been enough for Stark to connect the dots.

"So?" Stark asked again. "Am I right?"

Natasha gave a curt nod.

Stark smiled briefly in satisfaction, but the expression faded as he cocked his head and studied her for a long moment.

She stared back evenly.

"Okay, fine," Stark said at last. "I'll go with you now. But you get to help me pack."

* * *

Natasha almost regretted insisting that Stark come with them. Almost.

He had, in fact, demanded that she help him pack, tossing clothes at her impatiently only to snatch them back so that he could shove them into a duffle bag. He'd kept up a steady stream of mindless chatter all the while - jumping from one topic to the next like a hyper-active child.

When he was finally satisfied that he had what he needed, they'd left the tower, and she'd led him to the nearby high-rise that was serving as a temporary landing platform for their quinjet. Once aboard, Stark had finally settled down enough to continue studying the files Fury had sent. She was seated across from him in the aft compartment, and from this angle, she could see the corner of his screen. It contained a copy of Dr. Selvig's notes on the Tesseract, and another, smaller window was dedicated to thermonuclear astrophysics. Stark seemed to be reading both at once.

A sleek red and gold case sat beside him on the floor, propped up against his leg. A travel-sized version of the suit, he'd explained. She knew from reading Stark's file that he had possessed something similar when he'd been suffering from palladium poisoning. She assumed that this was the new, improved version, but the Agent then-playing Stark's personal assistant hadn't been detailed enough in her descriptions for Natasha to be sure.

Natasha knew it was a role she herself might have been given - the sultry assistant, charged with observing Stark and influencing him when needed. But, to be honest, she was glad that she hadn't been with S.H.I.E.L.D. long enough to have been assigned the mission. Judging by Stark's reaction to her in the penthouse, it wouldn't have been difficult to spark his interest, but it would not have been an assignment she would have relished. Stark's personality was simply too grating.

Fury undoubtedly knew that, which was most likely why he'd assigned her to Stark now. It was preferable to a black mark on her record, she supposed, but only by a very bare margin.

Snorting softly at the thought, she turned away from Stark, letting her gaze wander across the sky visible through the jet's windshield.

Clint would have appreciated the view.

He always did.

He spent most of their mission-related flights staring out the window at the sky. Something in him seemed to uncoil in those moments, his expression a little less blank, his posture a little more relaxed. Such a sight was still relatively rare, despite the small improvements she'd seen in him over the last year, and she had learned to appreciate it.

There were many things she had learned to appreciate.

It had been obvious from the beginning that they would be assigned to work as partners. Clint's condition meant that S.H.I.E.L.D. did not trust him to work independently, and logistically, it made sense to pair them together, since S.H.I.E.L.D. would need to expend fewer resources to monitor them. Thankfully, their skills complimented each other quite well, so they had fallen quickly into a routine.

Missions, she had found, tended to render Clint even more silent than usual. But, though he didn't speak as often, he gained an intensity that he lacked otherwise - a sharpness visible in his movements, a light evident in his eyes. More often than not, he served as her backup while she took point, assuming whatever role was needed to ingratiate herself with their targets. Occasionally, he joined her on the ground, usually to play the hired muscle (stoic and looming came to him naturally).

But, it wasn't the missions themselves that stood out to her now. It was the moments in between.

She'd asked him to show her how to fire a bow once. She'd learned the basics in the Red Room, since they had wished for her to be proficient with a wide variety of weapons, but Clint's technique differed and she was curious. He'd spoken more in the following hour than he ever had before, at least in the time that she could remember. He'd deftly adjusted her grip and her stance, and shown her how to aim, helping her get a feel for the tension in the string. When she'd made a bull's-eye, Clint had given her the same almost-smile she'd first seen from him in New Mexico, after the Thor mission.

Then, a few months later, in Munich, they'd had the chance to visit the circus.

Bright, colorful, and loud, the atmosphere had felt somehow foreign and familiar to her all at once. Clint had watched it all with a sort of avid curiosity she had never seen from him before, his gaze darting from one act to the next, the lights from the stage casting his features in stark relief, somehow making him look younger.

She had bought a poster for him, before they'd left. It had wound up in his quarters, hanging next to the circus poster he already owned.

Shortly after that, in Zurich, their safe house had been next door to a confectioner's chocolate shop. Natasha had made a point to try as many of the chocolates as she could. Her favorite had been the small chocolate squares filled with almonds and caramel, though she had never learned their formal name. She hadn't even realized that Clint had been watching her, but the night before the mission had ended, she'd found a small package of them sitting on her bed.

He was her partner in every sense of the word, and she owed him still.

For her freedom. For her life as it was now.

And she would do whatever was necessary to get him back.

* * *

Hours later, they had reached the Helicarrier, and the sound of voices greeted them as she and Stark neared the conference room adjoining the bridge.

Natasha heard Coulson say something about "slight foxing around the edges," and smirked faintly in amusement. He'd wanted to get his Captain America trading cards signed since Rogers had been found in the ice, and she'd wondered how long it would take him to mention it to his boyhood hero.

The talk stopped as soon as they entered, however.

Coulson and two other men were seated at the conference table.

It was the tall, blond man who stood and walked over to meet her, an old fashioned gesture emphasized by the vintage style of his clothing. He wore a green plaid shirt that was buttoned up neatly to the collar, and a brown, leather aviator's jacket. His trousers looked to be military issue as well. He was clean shaven and his hair was neatly trimmed, parted on one side, combed and slicked back.

"Ma'am," he began, nodding politely.

She held out a hand. "Agent Natasha Romanoff."

"Steve Rogers." He took the offered hand, shaking it firmly, then turned to face the billionaire beside her. "Mr. Stark," he added.

"Captain," Stark returned simply.

Rogers gave a somewhat strained smile in response, and Stark's gaze drifted to the conference table.

"Coulson! Pepper says hi."

Coulson nodded. "Tell her I say the same."

"I will," Stark assured, his gaze moving to the other man who was still seated.

He was dressed in a rumpled purple shirt with a tan suit jacket and tan pants. His brown, curly hair was sprinkled with small flecks of gray, and there was a tired look in his brown eyes. He grasped a pair of glasses loosely in one hand, but it was the tense set of his shoulders that made Natasha wary. According to the reports she'd read, he'd gone more than a year without an incident, but he clearly didn't trust S.H.I.E.L.D., and the resulting stress might make him unstable. He would bear watching.

Stark, however, didn't have the same reservations.

He walked over purposefully and reached out to shake his hand. "It's good to meet you, Dr. Banner. Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled. And I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster."

Banner winced faintly and looked down. "Uh…thanks."

"Dr. Banner is only here to track the cube."

They all turned at that, watching as Fury strode into the room.

"I was hoping you might join him, Stark," he continued, taking a seat at the head of the table.

Following his example, Natasha claimed a seat of her own beside Coulson, and Rogers returned to the seat he had occupied earlier. Stark, however, remained standing, choosing to wander around the room, stopping to study anything he deemed to be of interest.

But, clearly, he was still listening.

"Well, you know me," Stark said, "'helpful,' is my middle name."

Fury snorted at that. "Sure it is."

Clasping both hands in front of him, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"As you all know," he began formally, "yesterday, at 0200, our New Mexico research installation was attacked by an alien hostile known as Loki. He persuaded three of our personnel to assist him in obtaining the Tesseract, using some sort of…spell. Dr. Eric Selvig and Agent Clint Barton are believed to still be with him now. The third man, Agent Marcus Powell, was killed as they fled. His remains were discovered in the tunnels beneath the base."

"What about Loki's brother?" Rogers wondered. "Thor, wasn't it? The one you had contact with last year? Can't he do anything to help?"

Fury sighed. "Thor might be willing to help us, but he's worlds away, and we have no way to contact him."

"You've said you want me to track down the cube," Banner interjected, leaning back in his seat. "Any idea what they're planning to do with it?"

"At this point, we can't say, though our guess is 'nothing good.'"

"Do you think they want to weaponize it?" Rogers asked. "The footage you showed me of Loki's attack…that staff he had. It may be magical, but it works an awful lot like a HYDRA weapon."

Banner looked thoughtful. "I don't know about weaponizing the cube, but if they want to create another portal, it won't be easy. Dr. Selvig would need heat the cube to a hundred and twenty million Kelvin just to break through the Coulomb barrier."

"Unless Selvig has figured out how to stabilize the quantum tunneling effect," Stark cut in, frowning. He stopped by a set of monitors, prodding at them for a moment, then turned around, shrugging. "They'd need a stabilizing agent for that. Probably iridium, though it would have to be a pure, sizeable sample. The only other major component they'd need is a power source. A high energy density, something to kick start the cube."

Fury nodded. "We'll begin exploring possible sources for both. In the meantime, we're continuing our search for Loki and the others."

"We're sweeping every wirelessly accessible camera on the planet," Coulson added. "Cell phones, laptops. If it's connected to a satellite, it's eyes and ears for us."

"That won't find them in time," Natasha pointed out.

The Red Room had trained them to avoid even that kind of detection, and Clint already knew S.H.I.E.L.D.'s modus operandi - he could easily guarantee that Loki and the others stayed out of sight as well.

"Unfortunately, right now, it's the best we've got," Fury said. "Unless, one of you has something to add...?"

Banner frowned. "You have to narrow the field. How many spectrometers do you have access to?"

Fury shrugged. "How many are there?"

"Call every lab you know, tell them to put the spectrometers on the roof and calibrate them for gamma rays. I'll rough out a tracking algorithm based on cluster recognition. At least we could rule out a few places."

Fury nodded again. "Do it." He turned to look at Stark and frowned.

Natasha followed his gaze to find that Stark was staring at conference table, a preoccupied look on his face, his mouth twisted in obvious thought.

"Stark?" Fury pressed. "Something you wanna share?"

"It's just…why Barton?"

Fury blinked. "What?"

"Think about it. Loki had his pick of Agents, right? He could have taken anybody in that room. He could have taken  _you_. So why choose a guy whose lights aren't all on upstairs?"

"Stark," Rogers objected, scowling at the flippancy.

Natasha might have been grateful for that except for the feeling of sudden, cold realization settling in even as Stark spoke.

"No, I'm serious," Stark continued. "Loki wiped the floor with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best and brightest. Obviously, he doesn't need muscle. So what does Barton actually have to offer Loki? Money? Intel?"

"Allies."

Every head turned in her direction as the word slipped past her lips.

It made sense. Too much sense. She should have seen it before.

Outside of S.H.I.E.L.D., it was all Clint knew. And what better place to take a man bent on destroying them?

"The Red Room," Natasha said, her throat tight. "Clint took Loki to the Red Room."

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're having a wonderful Valentine's Day! :) Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	19. Partners in Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 19 **

" _Clint took Loki to the Red Room."_

The pronouncement was met with silence at first.

Rogers was frowning, Stark looked thoughtful, and Banner was staring down at his hands, a troubled expression on his features.

But none of them really understood.

"Are you sure, Romanoff?" Fury demanded. "You don't know Loki."

"But I know Clint. I know how his mind works. And it makes sense. Money, manpower, supplies - whatever Loki needs, the Red Room could provide it."

"But would they?" Rogers asked. "If the Red Room is anything like HYDRA, they have their own agenda."

"More than anything, the Red Room wants power. For themselves. For Russia. If Loki offered them the means to get it, I have no doubt they would cooperate with him."

A muscle tightened along Fury's jaw, his expression dark. "Banner, Stark," he ordered, "start your search in Russia. We'll concentrate our efforts there for now." Fury pushed his chair back and stood, his one-eyed gaze no less piercing. "I hope you're wrong about this, Romanoff."

"So do I," Natasha answered simply.

But hope, she knew, might not be enough.

* * *

The bridge of the Helicarrier buzzed with activity.

Arranged almost like a circular arena, it was ringed with windows, allowing a sweeping view of the sky outside. A wide stretch of deck-plating followed, and the helm was stationed just behind that, sunken into the center of the bridge, making it the room's lowest point. Work stations followed behind that, set in four rows at a graduated height so that the row farthest back was also the highest. Balcony railings set it apart from the rest of the room, while stairs connected it to the lower levels. The rows of work stations were positioned at a wide angle, the two halves of the room facing each other. They were divided only by a center catwalk designed to allow command personnel to traverse the entirety of the bridge with ease.

Maria Hill stood there now, calling out orders while numerous uniformed personnel milled around her, some manning the work stations and others walking from one station to the next with clipboards in hand, relaying status updates and reports.

A few of those personnel glanced up at Natasha as she passed, and as she walked farther into the room, she sensed Hill's narrow-eyed gaze as well. But no one stopped her. She had been cleared to enter the bridge for well over a year now, and though she could have gone elsewhere, she preferred to remain in the command center while they waited for Banner and Stark to conduct their search.

That way, if there was any news, she would be one of the first to hear it.

She had returned to her quarters only to change from the office attire she had worn to retrieve Stark, donning her uniform instead. Her original request to wear something more form-fitting had been granted; in fact, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s textile department had gone as far as creating a new synthetic material for her use. Similar in appearance to leather, the black synthetic fabric fit snuggly, while stretching to accommodate an unrestricted range of motion. It also offered her some minimal protection from shrapnel, heat, and blades, though it wouldn't stop a bullet.

A belt made of the same material hugged her waist, a black widow's distinctive red hourglass forming the clasp. It was a personal touch the Red Room would have never allowed, but S.H.I.E.L.D.'s regulations were slightly more flexible in that regard.

She liked the look of the uniform, though she wasn't blind to the fact, that while it was designed to be practical, it was also, essentially, a "catsuit." She had not failed to notice the appreciative stares of some of the male personnel, but she wasn't bothered by it - their interest might be useful at some point.

In any case, none of them had been bold enough to approach her. Most, she knew, still believed that she and Clint were involved.

Releasing a quiet breath, Natasha let her gaze wander around the bridge until it finally came to rest on Clint's picture on one of the screens. There was no match in any broadcast image thus far, and she knew there wouldn't be. She walked over to Clint's picture anyway, crouching down to stare at it.

The tech manning the station glanced over at her curiously but said nothing.

The image was on a screen a level below Natasha on the tiered bridge, so crouching down as she was, she was nearly level with it. Clint's picture stared back, his eyes blank, his features composed in a stone-like mask. The static image simply lacked the subtle cues Natasha knew to be there in reality, and she felt a sudden pang of longing.

"Ma'am."

Natasha turned, silently berating herself for becoming distracted. Four armed security personnel stood behind her. They were all male, quite large and muscular, and she knew from having sparred with them that at least two of them had training that was nearly comparable to her own.

She stood up, careful not to make any sudden moves when she saw that they had all subtly reached for their sidearms. "Yes?"

One of them stepped forward, a brown-haired man she remembered was named Gains. "We need you to come with us, ma'am."

Her eyes narrowed faintly. "What is this about?"

"I'm afraid I have to insist, ma'am."

That was hardly an answer, and for a moment, Natasha considered resisting, but she had trusted S.H.I.E.L.D. for two years, and she would give them the benefit of the doubt now. She nodded her assent, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu as the guards moved into position around her. The bridge crew stared as they passed, and Hill was frowning, pressing the radio at her ear, but the doors of bridge closed before Natasha could hear what it was that Hill said.

The journey didn't last long.

Fury's office was located a short distance from the bridge, and beside that was a small room with a pair of guards stationed outside. The control panel beside it clearly required an access code.

They must have been expected, however, because the door slid open to admit them. As soon as Natasha stepped inside, she was plunged into near-darkness, the only light coming from a source in the ceiling above. Her gaze was immediately drawn to the large screens arranged in a semi-circle along the front wall. They displayed the shadowed silhouettes of several men and one woman. She could see that much as least, though their faces were hidden from her view.

This could only be the World Security Council.

Fury stood in front of the screens, standing stiffly, though she suspected his posture had less to do with respect and more to do with surprise.

"Why is Romanoff here?" he demanded.

"We felt it wise to be certain of Ms. Romanoff's whereabouts," the councilwoman answered, "especially now that Mr. Barton has shown his true colors."

Natasha bristled, but Fury answered before she could.

"Councilwoman," he began curtly, "there's no evidence that Barton  _planned_  to defect. You saw the footage salvaged from the base. Barton was trying to stop Loki up until that staff touched him."

"So it appeared," one of the councilmen agreed. "But, Romanoff and Barton's loyalties have been suspect from the beginning. How can we be certain that Barton is not actually working with Loki willingly?"

"His eyes," Natasha said, sensing the gazes of council members turning to her as she spoke. She stared back coldly in return. "His eyes glowed blue. The same color as the Tesseract."

"Same thing happened to Selvig," Fury added, drawing their attention once more. "I saw it. Unless you think he's working with Loki willingly too?"

"Selvig is known to have allied himself closely with Loki's brother," the councilwoman answered. "Who is to say that his loyalty does not extend to Loki as well? The color of their eyes might have been part of the ruse."

"Ruse?" Fury repeated incredulously. "Exactly how could Barton and Selvig could have plotted anything with a man from another  _planet_?"

"We have no idea what sort of capabilities Loki might possess-"

"Like mind control, you mean," Fury put in.

The councilwoman ignored him.

"-and it is not out of the realm of possibility the he was communicating with them somehow. That seems to be the case, if indeed, Barton has taken Loki to the Red Room."

"Romanoff's the one who suggested that in the first place!" Fury pointed out angrily. "If she was in on their supposed plan, why would she tip us off?"

"Perhaps to avoid suspicion. In any case, Ms. Romanoff herself may have been their point of contact. She met with Thor, did she not?" she continued.

Fury's eye narrowed. "Agent Romanoff attempted to  _subdue_  Thor when he attacked our New Mexico installation."

"How can we be sure that she didn't pass some sort of message to Thor, who then gave it to his brother?"

Fury drew a deep breath in an obvious effort to remain calm. "I've told you our intelligence indicates that Thor is not a hostile."

"Your intelligence has been wrong before, and in this instance, we simply can't afford to take any chances. Effective immediately, Ms. Romanoff is under arrest."

Natasha heard guns being cocked behind her and tensed, but she didn't make a move to disarm the guards responsible. Fury, despite his anger at her for her unwillingness to risk Clint's life, was clearly an ally, and in such close quarters, Fury would be in the line of fire. Moreover, resisting now would only enforce the idea that she had been working against S.H.I.E.L.D. all along. If she cooperated, there was a chance that Fury could persuade them to release her.

"Put your hands behind your back," Agent Gains ordered.

She did, and an instant later, she felt the cool metal of handcuffs close around first one wrist and then the other. As soon as she was cuffed, they quickly confiscated her weapons.

"This is crazy," Fury grit out. "You have no proof that any of what you said is true!"

"As you've told us many times, Director," the councilwoman answered, "Ms. Romanoff is exceptionally good at her job. It's unlikely that there would be any proof of her treachery until it was too late. Thus, we have decided to err on the side of caution."

Fury looked absolutely disgusted. "Arresting her now is like shooting yourself in the foot! We need her. The strike force-"

"-will have to function without her," one of the councilmen declared. "Your objection has been noted, but you have your orders, and we expect you to follow them."

She saw Fury's hands curl into fists at his sides, a muscle clenching along his jaw, but he nodded tersely.

"Agent Gains," he said at last, "escort Agent Romanoff to the holding cells on Level 4."

"Yes, sir."

The guards surrounded her once more and led her out the door and into the corridor. The hallways had not been cleared in advance, something she might have used to her advantage had she been inclined to escape, but she suspected that the lapse in security was a deliberate move on the Council's part. Perhaps they were hoping she would somehow prove their suspicions, or perhaps they simply wanted others to see her in handcuffs, to doubt her even more than they already did.

If that was the case, they had succeeded, because the stares she and the guards attracted now were clearly wary - more so than usual.

It wouldn't be long before rumors about her arrest spread.

They reached Level 4 a few minutes later, and she was taken directly to the high security wing. Her cell was located at end of a long hallway, which she assumed was an additional security measure. It was likely equipped with sensors that alerted the guards to an escape, or perhaps it was even booby trapped, designed to disable anyone who breached the confines of the cells.

She offered no resistance as the guards removed her handcuffs and the door to the cell was opened. She was ordered to step inside and she did so; the door immediately slid closed behind her. A small electronic whine signaled that the automatic lock had snapped into position, but for an instant, she had expected to hear the much louder clang of the thick metal doors she remembered from the Red Room.

Her gaze quickly swept over the space.

It was a 6' by 8' cell with featureless metal walls and an adjoining bathroom. A simple bunk was welded to one wall, and the gray blanket covering it nearly blended into the dark metal behind it.

Her eyes drifted towards the ceiling, to the small vents cut into the metal above her, and at once, she saw another cell, the vents in a slightly different configuration. Someone was peering at her through them…

The memory slipped away before she could grasp it.

Closing her eyes briefly to dispel her frustration, Natasha moved to the bunk and sat down.

She would wait to see if Fury made any headway with the Council before she made a move of her own.

But she would not wait long.

The Helicarrier was not designed to serve as a long-term holding facility, and if the Council intended to keep her locked away, they would have to transfer her elsewhere and soon. That would be her best chance to escape. If she could break away from her security detail, she would be able to hide within the Helicarrier easily enough - Clint's propensity for heights had given her a detailed knowledge of the ship's layout. From there, she would need to make her way to the hangar and stow aboard one of the jets.

It would be difficult but not impossible, and if she succeeded, in all likelihood, her original termination order would be reinstated, but she didn't particularly care.

Fury had already made it clear that stopping Loki was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s main priority. Saving Clint and the others Loki had taken was a very distant second.

Clint didn't matter to them, not really. But he mattered to her.

She wouldn't allow him to become a casualty, and she wouldn't leave him with Loki. With the Red Room.

She kept her expression purposefully blank, knowing she was being watched by the security cameras sure to be monitoring the cell. But a cold sensation washed over her as she considered that if Loki had indeed gone to the Red Room, he might simply return Clint to them as part of whatever bargain he'd struck.

Traitors to the Red Room received an immediate death sentence, but then again, Clint wasn't a traitor in the truest sense. He hadn't chosen to defect. The Red Room might gladly reclaim their missing operative, and if they altered his mind once again, she might very well lose Clint regardless of whether or not he survived.

Natasha blinked hard, her chest suddenly tight.

No. She wouldn't consider that possibility. She wouldn't. Not yet.

_Not yet._

* * *

One hour had passed and then another, and eventually, Natasha had laid down on the bunk, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep. Regardless of what happened, it would likely be some time before she had the opportunity to rest, and she knew that she should take advantage of the forced inactivity while she had the chance.

However, her eyes snapped open when she heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire in the distance. She sat up and rolled off the bunk, landing on her feet and crouching down on the floor, facing the door.

As quickly as it had begun, the gunfire stopped.

A new sound followed a minute later.

Footsteps.

And they were drawing closer.

Natasha tensed, her eyes narrowed.

A series of faint beeps told her that someone was using the control panel outside, and a moment later, the door slid open.

Natasha blinked.

Iron Man stared back at her.

"Romanoff," he greeted. Stark's expression was inscrutable through the mask he wore, but his voice was wry as he took in her obvious attack stance.

Natasha relaxed and stood. "Stark."

"Don't suppose you'd wanna get out of here?" Stark asked. He paused. "And I didn't actually mean for that to sound like a pick-up line, just for the record."

She ignored him and strode out into the corridor. If there were additional security features in the hallway as she'd assumed, Stark must have disabled them, because the corridor remained quiet aside from the soft  _clank_  of Stark's metal-clad feet as he followed her.

"You're welcome for the rescue, by the way," Stark added.

"Are the others with you?" she demanded, her eyes still scanning the corridor as they walked.

Stark shrugged. "Stars and Stripes is creating a distraction, and Banner is finishing up in the lab, but yeah, we're working together if that's what you mean. Rah, rah, rah, go team."

She frowned. "Fury told you what happened?"

"Not exactly. I may have done some unauthorized digging in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s databases. Ran across the order to arrest you. Found some other interesting things too."

He didn't elaborate, and Natasha couldn't deny her curiosity. Unpredictable as Stark was, she doubted that he would act against S.H.I.E.L.D. without a good reason, and she knew that  _she_  wasn't that reason. Stark didn't know her well enough to rail against injustice on her behalf. The same was true of the others - she was practically a stranger to them all. But she didn't press - she could get answers later. Right now, they had to move. This was the best chance she had to escape, and she wasn't going to waste it.

The guard station came into view as soon as they left the corridor. Three uniformed men and one woman lay on the floor, unmoving, but all of them were still breathing and none of them seemed to be seriously hurt.

Stark had clearly used a restrained approach.

If the gunfire had been any indication, the security personnel hadn't felt it necessary to do the same.

Natasha crouched down and turned one of the men over onto his back before reaching for his sidearm. She quickly unhooked his thigh holster and slipped it around her own leg, tightening it until it fit snugly. She drew the gun, checked the its sites, chamber, and clip, ensuring that they were in acceptable condition, then patted the man down to check for any additional weapons.

"How long do we have before they come after us?" she demanded.

"Fifteen minutes at least."

Stark sounded smug, and Natasha glanced up, frowning. "What did you do?"

"Uploaded a virus. It's working through the Helicarrier's systems as we speak. Took out the cameras and the comms first. Everything but the engines, flight, and environmental controls should be offline soon."

Natasha's eyebrows rose. Impressive.

If S.H.I.E.L.D. had one weakness, it was their reliance on technology. Without cameras they were effectively blind and were likely still unaware of what had happened in the holding cells. And, without the comms, messages would have to be relayed manually. If the elevators were down as well, then personnel would be forced to used the service tunnels which would make it almost impossible for command to receive timely intel.

Still, it wouldn't take them long to guess that she was somehow involved, and they needed to hurry.

"Lights will be down next," Stark added. "In fact, that should be happening right about…now."

Nothing happened.

"Okay, hold on…now."

Still nothing.

Stark sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Oh, fine, just wait for it."

The lights flickered and then switched off, leaving only the dim emergency lighting behind.

"There. That."

Natasha snorted softly, amused in spite of herself, and continued checking over the other security personnel. She claimed another 9mm, then emptied the other guns she found, taking the magazines and pocketing the bullets. There was no way of knowing how long the guards be unconscious, and she didn't want to risk leaving them armed.

She stood up again, holstering her newly-acquired weapons. "Where's the rally point?"

"The maintenance locker outside the hangar. Seemed like a good place to meet, considering that we'll probably need to make a fast getaway." Stark cocked his head. "We sort of assumed you'd be able to help with that. Can you fly one of those jets?"

Natasha nodded. "I can."

She wouldn't call herself particularly skilled, but it had been a required part of her training with S.H.I.E.L.D. Every field operative was expected to be a competent pilot should it ever become necessary for them to take over the controls of a quinjet. Considering the highly classified nature of the aircraft, it was a reasonable security measure. Clint had shown some real aptitude as a pilot, but he hadn't been allowed any further training once the minimum requirements had been met, a decision that had likely been made by the World Security Council.

She pushed the thought aside and started for the exit, Stark following behind her.

"Quickest way to the hangar is through this junction here and up two Levels," she offered aloud.

"I know." Stark tapped the side of his helmet. "Downloaded the ship schematics."

That wasn't really a surprise, though she couldn't help wondering how much "digging" Stark had actually done. Natasha's lips curved faintly. He was even more of a security threat than she was.

Stark's predictions about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s increased response time were apparently accurate because the corridor directly outside of the holding cells remained empty, and they made it to the first section juncture without incident. But as soon as Natasha peered around the corner, she spat a curse in Russian.

A security team was headed their way.

They had two options: they could backtrack and take the roundabout way to the hangar, which would cost them precious time and might present other obstacles, or they could take the security team head-on and hope that the fight was not a long one.

She reached for one of the guns she'd taken and started forward, but she was brought up short when Stark grabbed her arm.

"Wait."

She tried to pull away, but his mechanically-enhanced grip was unyielding. "Let go of me."

"No. Hold on. I have an idea. Just trust me."

She didn't, but at this point, she didn't have much choice. She gave a curt nod and Stark surprised her by grabbing her other wrist with the same hand, effectively locking both arms together with metal fingers and dragging her out into the corridor with him.

The security team came to an abrupt halt, clearly not expecting to find Iron Man walking towards them with a captive in tow. (At least, she assumed that was Stark's plan now. He gave a rough yank on her arms, in what was apparently an attempt to make her status as a prisoner seem more believable.)

The security team was not entirely alone in their surprise, however. As they drew closer, Natasha recognized the agent leading them.

Agent Spence.

She wondered idly if he had volunteered for the detail assigned to check the holding cells. He surely would have jumped at the chance to catch her red-handed in an escape.

As if sensing her thoughts he turned to give her a dark look, then turned back to Stark.

"Mr. Stark," he said tersely, a hard, suspicious edge to his voice.

"Took you long enough to get here," Stark began immediately. "You just missed them. Tactical team. Wearing ski masks. Big guys. They went that way." He pointed back down the corridor, in the direction leading away from the hangar. "They were probably here for Romanoff. Fury sent me to get her."

Spence's eyes narrowed. "Director Fury sent you? Impossible. We would have been notified."

"With comms down, I bet it's hard to relay anything to anybody."

She had to give Stark credit as a liar. He'd sounded only faintly self-satisfied as he'd said that.

"Look," Stark continued, "Fury told me to get her, so I did. You have questions, bring it up with him later." He gave another tug on her arms, obviously hoping to walk away, but Spence didn't move, and Stark was forced to stop again.

"Since when do  _you_  follow the Director's orders?" Spence demanded.

"Oh, I don't know, since I learned that an alien maniac is running around on earth, bent on world domination?"

Spence's eyes narrowed. "Fine. We'll escort Romanoff to Fury. You can deal with the tactical team."

"Are you sure you and your men can handle her? Dangerous criminal and all…"

"You'll turn her over into our custody  _now_ , Mr. Stark."

"Yeah, no, I don't think so."

"I said NOW!" Spence barked, drawing his sidearm. The other security agents followed suit.

Stark sighed. "This is ridiculous. I've got her, you're letting the mercs get away-"

"This is your last warning, Stark. I won't ask again."

"Technically," Stark pointed out, "you didn't ask, you ordered."

A moment later, the security team opened fire.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	20. Avengers Assemble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 20 **

Stark shoved Natasha behind him just as bullets began pinging rapidly off his armor.

She pressed her back against Stark's, matched her silhouette to his in an effort to avoid being hit by stray rounds or ricochets, and waited for a lull in the shooting.

There would have to be one, and soon, judging by the amount of ammo being used. That was a mistake on Spence's part, a senseless waste of resources - it was already clear that it would take a much higher caliber bullet to do any real damage to the suit.

Stark's thinking was obviously along the same lines because as soon as the team paused to reload, Stark sighed and shook his head in exasperation, then stretched out his right hand, the tell-tale electronic whine warning of what was to come. The resulting blast was only a fraction of what Natasha suspected the suit was capable of producing, but it was enough to send several members of the security team staggering back.

It also meant that, for the moment, their attention was on the more obvious target in front of them.

That was all she needed.

Natasha leapt from behind Stark and rolled, then ran straight at the nearest wall. There were eight members of the security team, nine counting Spence; she rebounded off that wall, and came down right in the middle of them, facing the four closest to the back to the group.

She thrust out her right elbow, striking the nearest agent in the temple. He dropped, already limp, and Natasha spun again, hitting the next agent in the sternum with the heel of her hand, forcing the air from his lungs. He doubled over and she brought her knee up into up into his stomach with enough force that he was sent backwards, onto the floor.

There was a burst of gunfire from Spence and the other agents, but none of it was directed at her. Apparently, they were still focused on Stark. A clang of metal and another electronic whine told her why.

She had no time to think about Stark beyond that because an instant later, she was blocking a punch aimed for her face. It was a distraction - the agent's gun was aimed at her abdomen. She grabbed the man's arm and twisted, forcing it behind his back. He grunted in pain. She heard another agent coming at her from behind, and kicked out with her leg, extending it back, striking the female agent under the chin, though she was careful to avoid breaking the agent's neck.

Doing so, she knew, would sever her ties with S.H.I.E.L.D. permanently. Even if Fury was willing to overlook her escape, he wouldn't overlook fatalities.

The woman fell back, unconscious, and Natasha returned her focus to the agent still struggling in her grip. She wrenched his wrist, forcing him to finally drop the gun, then kicked the back of one of his knees. His legs gave way automatically, and she spun and kicked again, her boot connecting with his head before he reached the floor.

She was facing Stark and the others now, and she saw that Stark had taken out two more of them - another man and woman, both of whom now lay unmoving at Stark's feet.

Spence and the two other remaining agents had scattered in an effort to give Stark more than one target. They had positioned themselves on opposite sides of the hallway, and were crouching behind opposing metal bulkheads, taking slow precise shots, probably hoping to find a weak point in Stark's armor.

Stark seemed as reluctant to kill as she was however, because when he turned to fire at the men on his right, it was the guns in their hands that he targeted. Beams of laser-like energy shot from the suit, and almost immediately, the metal of both handguns began to glow a faint red. The agents cried out in surprise and dropped their weapons, and Stark strode towards them, ignoring the shots now peppering his back from Agent Spence.

Natasha started forward silently, hoping to catch the other agent off-guard.

Spence apparently had good instincts though, because when she was a few feet away, he spun around, still crouched low, and fired.

But Natasha was quicker.

She jumped into the air, avoiding the bullet and flipping once. She landed beside him, thrusting out with her right foot, trapping his forearms between the wall and her boot, keeping him from bringing the gun to bear again.

He snarled at her, trying to break away, but she pushed off with her left leg, twisting in the air, her foot connecting with his jaw. His head snapped to the side as she completed the spin and landed in place.

Spence slumped over, unconscious, the gun falling from his fingers at last.

She turned just in time to see Stark deliver a blow to the temple of one of the remaining agents; he dropped limply. The other agent had drawn his backup weapon, but before he could fire, Stark reached his hand in front of the agent's face, and there was a brief, bright flash of white light. The man yelled out in surprise and staggered back, blinking furiously. Stark picked him up with ease and hit his head against the nearby metal wall. He crumpled, joining his partner on the floor.

Stark looked around, surveying the immediate area, his gaze sweeping over the agents Natasha had dealt with. He cocked his head.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have an amazing strength-to-weight ratio?"

Natasha rolled her eyes, stepped over Spence's prone form, and started down the corridor.

Stark followed, his suit whirring faintly as he moved. "You also have an amazing-"

"Stark?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

"I was going to say 'personality.'"

She gave him a disbelieving look over her shoulder.

He held up a hand. "Shutting up."

The rest of the corridor remained empty; the hallways outside of the security wing generally saw less traffic, and if emergency protocol was in effect, then agents were required to report to their assigned stations unless otherwise ordered. It was a safety measure, in case an evacuation became necessary, but for the moment, it meant that she and Stark were unlikely to run into any other agents on this level. There would be more ahead, though, Natasha knew.

The elevator at the end of the hall was clearly suffering the effects of Stark's virus, the door opening and closing at random intervals, chiming sporadically. Natasha walked past it and stopped at the entrance to the service tunnel which was a short distance away. The tunnel door lacked any sort of electronic component for scenarios just like these, and a twist of her wrist was all it took to turn the mechanism and open the metal hatch. Beyond it lay a small balcony, offering easy access to the ladder stretching upward into the darkness, connecting one level of the Helicarrier to the next.

She stepped over the threshold and onto the platform, Stark following behind her, his bulkier metal-clad frame making the platform seem suddenly crowded.

Stark looked around the tunnel for a moment then shrugged.

"Going up?" he asked, holding out an arm in clear invitation.

Natasha grudgingly accepted, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around Stark's neck while one of his arms wrapped around her back, pressing her to his side. A moment later they were shooting upwards, the tunnel slipping by in a blur, the walls uncomfortably close considering the speed at which they were traveling.

Stark stopped abruptly when they reached the level where the hangar was located, landing lightly on an identical platform. He released her and she stepped away, reaching for the mechanism that would open the door.

It swung open soundlessly, for what little good it did. A security team had been stationed nearby, and the closest security officer turned immediately, reaching for his gun the second he recognized her.

She didn't give him the chance to draw it. She leapt forward, twisting in the air so that her right leg wrapped around his neck, the crook of her knee hooked against his throat as she turned her momentum into a back flip, pulling the man with her. She landed neatly in a crouch, but the security officer was thrown down to the floor.

Already, the rest of the security team was moving in to take his place, and Natasha stood up, eyes narrowed.

The clank of metal feet behind her brought her would-be attackers to a momentary halt as Stark stepped out from the service tunnel. They obviously assumed that Iron Man had arrived to stop her, but a blast from his suit corrected that assumption.

The man Stark had targeted went flying and the security team surged forward.

Natasha dodged a punch aimed at her head, hearing the whir of a servo motor behind her as Stark entered the fray.

They needed to end this and fast, because this level was bound to see heavier traffic with the hangar nearby, and the longer the fight lasted the more attention it would draw. Already, a handful of agents had run to join the security team, and even with the comms down, it was only a matter of time before word of their location spread.

Natasha thrust an elbow into the closest agent's stomach. He doubled over, and she struck him a second time, her elbow connecting with his skull, knocking him out. She spun, ready to confront the security office who'd been trying to attack her from behind, but her opponent was already gone, tossed aside so easily she assumed that it was Stark's doing.

It wasn't Stark.

It took her a moment to recognize him. His blond hair now brushed his shoulders, and he wore elaborate silver armor with a long, bright red cape that was accented by the red fabric beneath his wrist guards. He held a hammer in his right hand, spinning it as if weighed nothing at all, though it was his fist and not the hammer that met the agents who charged him.

Thor.

She had no time to wonder how or why he was there - a female agent rushed forward, attempting to sweep her feet out from under her. Natasha jumped, turning the movement into a flip that carried her over the woman's head, then she spun again, kicking high, her boot striking the woman in the temple.

She dropped limply, and Natasha blocked a blow from the next agent who came at her, hitting him in the solar plexus, forcing the air from his lungs. He doubled over and she brought her knee up under his chin. He joined the woman on the floor.

A quick glance around the corridor showed that Thor and Stark had made quick work of the others who remained.

The instant the last agent fell, Stark and Thor turned to face each other, and the stabilizer on Stark's arm whined sharply as it charged. Natasha guessed that he'd recognized the Asgardian like she had, since the file he'd received had included the video from Puente Antiguo as well as Coulson's full report. But the tilt of Stark's head and the tense line of his shoulders made it obvious that he wasn't ready to trust their new ally.

Natasha understood his skepticism.

The World Security Council's claims about her had been false, but there was a chance that they were correct about Thor. He might very well be working with his brother, despite the promise Coulson had said he'd made about protecting the Earth. His words could have easily been empty.

But something told her they weren't.

Natasha walked over to Stark and put a restraining hand on his arm, keeping him from raising it completely. "Wait."

Stark's head swiveled towards her, and for an instant she was sure he would argue, but he was apparently willing to trust her judgment, because a moment later, he lowered his arm, the electronic whine dying down.

Satisfied that Stark would follow her lead, she turned towards the Asgardian.

"Thor," she greeted.

Stark scoffed, his gaze running over Thor from head to toe. "Huh. The god of thunder dresses out of a _Better Homes and Gardens_ magazine. Who would have thought?" There was a pause. "Seriously, are those drapes?"

Thor scowled, but he seemed inclined to ignore the insult and gave her a small bow instead. "Lady Natasha."

She blinked at the strange form of address, wondering exactly how he had learned her name. It wasn't as though they had been introduced the first time they'd met. But, for the moment, it didn't matter.

"Why are you here?" she asked simply.

"To aid you, if you will allow it."

"Hold on," Stark interrupted. "Do you mean _you_ as in us, or _you_ as in S.H.I.E.L.D.? Because that's a pretty important distinction right now." He waved a hand at the unconscious S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel for emphasis.

Thor frowned. "You and Lady Natasha plan to confront my brother, do you not?"

Stark shrugged. "That's the idea."

"Then I shall fight by your side."

"Against Loki?" Natasha pressed.

The lines around Thor's eyes deepened at the mention of his brother but he nodded. "Against Loki."

"He took someone important to me," Natasha added.

"I am sorry," Thor answered grimly. "I give you my word of honor that I will do everything in my power to help you."

"He has Erik Selvig as well."

Thor's jaw clenched, a hard light appearing in his gaze. _Good_ , Natasha thought, satisfied at last. Thor would be of no use to them if he was unwilling to do what needed to be done. He would be of no use to Clint.

"This is all very touching," Stark broke in, "but if you're with us, then we need to go. Now."

He was right. They may have been granted a few uninterrupted moments, but it wouldn't last.

Thor gave a brisk nod of understanding and followed Stark as he broke into a jog, Natasha trailing behind. Stark wasn't bothering with subtlety now, making a beeline for the hangar's maintenance lockers, but Natasha didn't object. Alone, she might have been able to take a more stealthy approach, but Stark in his suit was hardly inconspicuous, and Thor's red cape was practically a beacon in the gray hallways.

Thankfully, the personnel they encountered were dealt with easily, and were relatively few in number. The reason for that became clear as soon as Stark turned the corner leading to the maintenance lockers. At least a dozen more S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel lay on the floor, unconscious, and leaning against the wall nearby, obviously waiting for them, were Captain Rogers and Dr. Banner.

Rogers had changed into his uniform, and his shield was strapped to his left arm. Dr. Banner had lost his suit jacket somewhere along the way, and the sleeves of his purple button-down were rolled up to his elbows, his hands stuffed in his pants pockets.

"Sorry we're late," Stark began as soon as they reached them. He motioned to Thor. "We…uh, ran into some old friends."

Banner's eyebrows rose. "You're quoting Star Wars?"

Stark drew back a little, apparently impressed, and pointed at Banner. "The Force is strong with this one."

Rogers frowned in confusion but he turned to Thor, holding out a hand. "Steve Rogers."

The Asgardian grasped Rogers's forearm instead. "I am Thor."

Rogers offered a nod in welcome, but Natasha could see the questions in his eyes. He held them back, though, and Dr. Banner said a quiet greeting of his own.

Thor reached out to grasp his forearm as well, then glanced around the room. "You both appear to be fine warriors. It shall be an honor to fight by your side."

Banner snorted softly. "This wasn't me, actually. It was all Steve. I got here just before you did."

"Was there trouble for you too, Dr. Banner?" Steve asked.

Banner gave a wry smile, one tinged with a sad sort of humor. "Took a while to download the files we'll need, but otherwise, no, not really. That's one thing about the Other Guy. People who know me are generally pretty keen to stay out of my way."

Thor gave the scientist a quizzical look.

Banner grimaced. "I have…anger issues," he explained.

"You're a berserker?"

"Something like that."

Thor looked as though he wanted to ask more, but a groan from one of the unconscious agents reminded them all how little time they actually had.

"So, how are we gonna do this?" Banner asked, glancing uneasily in the direction of the hangar. "I'm not really someone who does well in a brawl."

"We'll do everything we can to keep you out of it," Rogers promised immediately. He turned back to Natasha. "Any idea what kind of numbers we'll be facing?"

"Depends," Natasha answered. "If they saw Stark's virus as a threat to structural integrity, they might have begun prepping for emergency evac, which means more staff stationed inside the hangar. But the hangar is usually crowded anyway. Technicians. Maintenance crews. Pilots on standby. You name it."

Rogers sighed. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

He turned to look at the door a few feet away and Natasha's gaze followed his. The door led directly to the hangar beyond, so that the maintenance staff wouldn't need to use the main entrance further down the corridor. The maintenance lockers themselves were kept in a small alcove. The alcove had no door, but a wall separated it from the hallway, and the lighting in the space was dim, thanks to Stark's virus, making it easy to hide in the shadows.

Stark and the others had chosen their rally point well.

But that would give them only a momentary edge, Natasha knew. The hangar beyond would likely be their biggest obstacle. S.H.I.E.L.D. would have the advantage of sheer numbers, while they, on the other hand, had voluntarily handicapped themselves by refusing to use lethal force. Natasha didn't particularly want to kill the people who had been her allies just a few hours before, but on a purely practical level, a deceased opponent couldn't rejoin a fight.

Trying to spare lives could potentially cost them their own.

Judging by the look on his face, Rogers was just as aware of that as she was.

"Okay," he began. "We're not gonna get another shot at this. The personnel in the hangar-"

"-won't be a problem," Stark interjected confidently.

Rogers turned to frown at the billionaire. "And why is that?"

"Because we'll tell them to leave."

Stark didn't offer any more of an explanation. He simply moved to the wall adjoining the hangar and reached up, plunging his fingers into the metal plating. It bent with surprising ease, and when he gave a sharp tug, the large panel pulled free. He set it on the floor, then looked back at the complex wall of circuitry that had now been revealed. He examined it for a moment, then plucked out a small bundle of wires. Reaching towards his right forearm, he pried up a panel on his suit and hooked the wires in with a deft movement of his fingers. He went still, his head tilted in concentration.

Natasha wondered what he was seeing behind that mask.

An instant later, he spoke.

"Attention, attention."

Natasha blinked. A half a second after Stark began, a perfect replica of Maria Hill's voice echoed his words over the hangar's loudspeaker.

"All personnel are ordered to evacuate the main hangar immediately. Repeat. All personnel are ordered to evacuate the main hangar immediately. Report to the commons for reassignment. Hill out."

Natasha had to admit that it was well done. It gave listeners no time to wonder about the announcement's legitimacy, or even to question how it was possible at all, given the current state of the ship's communication system. Stark had simply issued the order and expected it to be obeyed.

It was.

Their vantage point offered them a perfect view of the hangar's main entrance, and a few moments after the announcement, the doors opened and a steady stream of personnel began spilling out into the hallway.

Natasha moved deeper into the alcove, where the shadows were the darkest, and the others did as well, though it proved to be unnecessary. Stark's command had sent them towards the commons, which was in the opposite direction, and none of the personnel seemed inclined to look back at the maintenance lockers.

They waited until the rush of personnel slowed and finally stopped. Stark unhooked the wires from his suit, then pressed the control panel beside the alcove door, slipping quietly into the hangar. Natasha followed, hearing the others do the same behind her.

She let her eyes sweep the space as they walked.

The personnel stationed there had obviously withdrawn in a hurry. Maintenance vehicles were stopped haphazardly, and fuel lines were still linked to some of the nearby Harrier jets. Two F-35 cockpits sat open, and in the distance, a fork-lift seemed to have been stopped in mid-use, a stack of crates still balanced precariously in the air.

The taxiway itself seemed clear, however. As long as Stark could open the hangar door, they shouldn't have any difficulty leaving.

Natasha took the lead as they made their way past the long lines of aircraft, until they reached the section devoted to the quinjets. But as they approached the jet on the far end of the hangar, the jet's hydraulics hissed, and the ramp lowered onto the deck plating.

Natasha tensed, her hands automatically going for the guns at her sides, the men around her bracing for an attack as well.

Then a familiar figure in a well-pressed suit appeared at the top of the ramp.

Coulson.

The air shifted, becoming less hostile but no less wary.

In one way or another, Coulson had been an ally to all of them, but now that they were blatantly acting against S.H.I.E.L.D., it was harder to say where his loyalty would lie. Professional that he was, his expression gave away nothing, even as he strode to the end of the ramp and clasped his hands loosely in front of him.

"Coulson," Rogers greeted cautiously. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough. I knew you'd come here sooner or later. There are only so many ways off the ship." He turned to offer Thor a nod, apparently unsurprised by the Asgardian's presence. "Thor."

"Son of Coul," Thor returned.

"You're here for Loki?"

"I am."

Natasha ignored the exchange, her eyes narrowed faintly in thought. With the breakdown of the comms and the increased response time, it was possible that few had realized who the current "hostiles" actually were. But if Coulson had put the pieces together that quickly, then chances were, he wasn't the only one.

"Does Fury know what we're doing?" Natasha asked.

Coulson's lips quirked. "He suspects. Unofficially."

"Well, then," Stark interjected, "maybe he wouldn't mind if you explained a few things to us…unofficially. Like for instance, Phase 2, and all those weapons you have down in secure storage."

"It's really not that secure."

All eyes turned to Rogers who offered a shrug. "I did some digging of my own. I said I'd create a distraction. I didn't say where."

Coulson sighed. "It's true. We've been working to develop weapons using the cube."

So, that was what had prompted Stark and the others to act against S.H.I.E.L.D. Not the injustice against her, but what they felt was a greater injustice still - weaponizing the Tesseract.

"Did you know about this?"

It was Banner who spoke now, looking at her with something like suspicion.

"No," Natasha answered honestly. "I'm not trusted enough to be given that sort of information. But I can't say I'm surprised."

And she wasn't. S.H.I.E.L.D. was, at its core, a military organization. When they saw a threat, they acted to prevent it, or failing that, they prepared a response to it. She appreciated that mentality, but she couldn't deny having her own reservations this time. Not about making weapons from the cube - were she in a command position, she might have made the same call. No, her reservations stemmed from that fact that it was the World Security Council who would ultimately control such weapons.

"The decision was made after the incident in Puente Antiguo," Coulson interjected. He glanced at Thor, who was the cause of said incident. "Two alien entities practically wiped a small town off the map. Imagine what an army could do."

Thor frowned. "My people want nothing but peace with your planet."

"But not every world is like Asgard," Coulson returned evenly. "And not every threat is extraterrestrial. The world is filling up with people who have training and abilities unlike anything we've ever seen before. People who can't be matched. Can't be controlled."

"And you wanted, what?" Stark scoffed. "A nuclear deterrent? 'Cause that always calms everything right down."

Coulson sighed again. "I agree that it's not a perfect solution. But what would you suggest? You know as well as I do that sometimes force is the only thing that works. We have to be ready to use it." He cocked his head, looking at Stark pointedly. "Wasn't that the idea behind the suit?"

Stark's fists curled a little at his sides, like he wanted to argue, but he must have realized that they didn't have time for a philosophical debate - not now.

"Fine," he grit out. "While you're in a sharing mood, any other deep, dark secrets we should know?"

Coulson grimaced faintly. "If it can be proven that Loki is allied with the Red Room, the World Security Council will order a nuclear strike."

The announcement was met with stunned silence.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Banner burst out at last, drawing a few wary looks. "That could start World War III!"

He was right. That was, in fact, what had prevented S.H.I.E.L.D. from taking any overt action against the Red Room in the past. The organization was not "officially" recognized by the Russian government, but the political ties were there nonetheless, and despite Stark's mocking remarks about a "nuclear deterrent," few wanted to risk a war with a nuclear power. But any strike against the Red Room - particularly a nuclear strike - would be just that. An act of war.

"The Council thinks they will be able to contain the political fallout," Coulson added.

"They _think_ they can contain it?" Banner repeated, incredulous.

"There's no guarantee. But they believe the loss of life will be minimal, since the Red Room's main base is far from any major population centers. They can pass it off as a surgical strike, and use their connections within Russia's government to persuade them of the necessity."

"And if that doesn't work?" Rogers demanded, his voice hard.

"They still believe the consequences are preferable to facing an alien invasion on a global scale."

"So, they're gambling with the fate of the planet?" Stark surmised. "Great. That's just…great."

The skin around Coulson's eyes tightened, the only obvious sign that he agreed with the billionaire. "Stop Loki and you make a strike unnecessary. We'll stall them as long as we can. But you won't have much time. Two, maybe three days at most."

"No pressure, then," Stark retorted.

Silence fell again, this one just as heavy as the last, if not more so.

Natasha didn't attempt to break it, her mind racing. The thought of another World War was not a pleasant one, but her own concerns were more immediate.

Clint.

Regardless of what happened afterwards, if she was right about Loki's location...a nuclear strike on the Red Room would kill him.

She wouldn't allow that to happen, even if she had to drag Clint out of the Red Room and let the rest of the chips fall where they may.

Perhaps Thor's thoughts were following a similar vein, given his friendship with Erik Selvig and his relationship with the woman mentioned in Coulson's report - Jane Foster. The Asgardian's hand was wrapped tightly around the hammer he held, and he seemed deeply troubled. Rogers looked no better. His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes haunted by ghosts from the last world war. Stark's expression was inscrutable behind his mask, but he was practically radiating tension. It was Banner, though, that concerned Natasha the most. He had his eyes closed as he breathed slow, deliberate breaths probably meant to keep him calm.

She watched him for a long moment, and he seemed to sense the attention because his eyes opened. He managed something like a smile, though it was strained.

"I'm okay," he assured. "Well, as okay as anyone can be after learning that we might be on the brink of a third world war. But I won't…"

"…turn into an enormous green rage monster that'll be really hard to fit on a jet?" Stark filled in helpfully.

Banner snorted, apparently amused by Stark's brashness. "Yeah. That."

"Good. 'Cause sooner or later, someone is going to figure out that Hill's little announcement was bogus, and even without that, we've apparently got a bit of a time crunch here."

Coulson nodded in agreement, and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a comm device, nearly identical to the one he'd given her two years ago, when she'd been tasked with bringing Clint in.

"Use this only if you have to. It's a direct line to my office. The signal is scrambled, but there's still a chance that it could be traced."

Rogers accepted the comm, but he frowned a moment later. "And if it is? What will that mean for you?"

Coulson shrugged. "I'll have plausible deniability at least. Cameras and audio are both down, so as far as S.H.I.E.L.D. is concerned, this conversation never happened, and my report will say that I was knocked out attempting to stop you from taking this jet." He motioned to the quinjet behind them.

"You think they'll buy that?" Rogers asked.

"They'd better. I'll have the bruise to prove it." He glanced at Natasha. "Romanoff, if you wouldn't mind doing the honors?"

Rogers blinked, then grimaced faintly when he realized what Coulson intended. "Well, in that case, thanks. And…when you have a chance, give Fury our thanks as well…unofficially."

Coulson smiled. "Of course. Good luck. All of you." He turned to Natasha. "Romanoff? Do me a favor? Try not to break anything."

Natasha smirked at that, then drew back her fist, aiming squarely for Coulson's jaw. The blow connected, and he fell back immediately, limp.

Thor caught him before he reached the floor, then hefted him easily into his arms, carrying him a safe distance from the taxiway and setting him back down on the deck plating.

Satisfied that Coulson had been seen to, Natasha turned to jog up the ramp of the quinjet and immediately began running through preflight checks.

The others joined her as the engines hummed to life, and she closed the ramp.

"Now would be the time to open that door, Stark," she said as she began slowly steering the jet down the taxiway.

Stark quickly dropped into the co-pilot's seat, his fingers flying over the onboard computer. When the door of the hangar slid open, Natasha increased the quinjet's speed. A moment later, they were in the air.

The quinjet's rear camera showed her that the hangar door had shut again as soon as they were out of range, so there was no chance of them being followed, and with the Helicarrier's guns offline, they were in the clear, at least for now.

Natasha relaxed fractionally, leaning back in her seat as her hands steered the yoke, her eyes trained on the sky ahead.

"Did that tracking algorithm of yours ever give you any intel on Loki?" she asked, addressing Stark and Banner.

It was Stark who answered. "Yeah. Gamma rays are suddenly off the chart in northern Russia. And if the cube is there, then Loki probably is too. Looks like you were right."

Natasha's jaw clenched. Even after all this, she'd hoped that she wasn't.

Stark leaned forward again and typed in a quick series of numbers into the jet's navigational system. "Giving you the coordinates now."

"Wait, does this mean S.H.I.E.L.D. has them too?" Rogers wondered.

Banner shook his head. "No. I deleted everything we did before we left. S.H.I.E.L.D. will have to start their search from scratch. The only copy is with us." He patted his right pants pocket.

Silence fell as Natasha adjusted their heading, and unsurprisingly, it was Stark who broke it.

"So," he asked, "how long until we reach the Red Room?"

Natasha glanced at the instruments in front of her. "We're just south of Spain, so at top speed, a little over nine hours."

"Nine hours," Stark repeated, already sounding bored. "Anyone for a game of 'I Spy'?"

"What is this game?" Thor asked curiously.

"Don't encourage him," Rogers advised.

"Oh, come on," Stark pressed, "how often do you get to play 'I Spy' with an actual spy?" He waved his hand at Natasha.

A collective groan came from the men behind her, and Natasha punched the throttle, sending them rapidly up into the clouds.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	21. Infiltration Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 21  **

An hour into their flight, Natasha activated the autopilot, and she and the others gathered in the back of the quinjet. They stood around the on-board computer's main terminal now, a satellite image of the Red Room's main compound displayed on the screen.

Natasha stared at it intently.

The coordinates they'd gotten from the tracking algorithm pointed to this being the probable location of the tesseract. She cataloged entry and exit points, calculated the distance from one building to the next, and estimated the size of the forces likely to be stationed there, but that was habit, training. A larger part of her mind was busy trying to match the surveillance images to the ones in her memory.

Of course, there was no guarantee that this was the same facility that had held her. The location told her nothing - the Red Room had a number of bases throughout Russia, and she'd never known exactly where the facility could be found…a security measure, she assumed, in case she were ever compromised.

Nevertheless, while so much of her time in the Red Room was a miasma of fractured memories and broken images, the layout of the compound itself remained clear in her mind, if only from the sheer repetition of walking those halls. She remembered the training fields adjoining the forest, the parade grounds outside, the barracks, the gymnasium, the gun range, the classrooms, the Polkovnik's office…

It had to be. It had to be the base from her memories.

The one that had served as her prison for the better part of her life.

"What do you think, Agent Romanoff?"

Natasha blinked, the sound of her name finally drawing her attention. She looked up to find Captain Rogers watching her.

"I think our best bet is infiltration," he added, seeming to sense that her thoughts had been elsewhere. "A frontal assault will never work - we don't know for sure what kind of resources they have or how much manpower we'll be facing. And we'll have to be fast. In and out as soon as possible."

"I agree," Natasha said simply.

"What kind of response are we looking at, once they realize we're there?" Stark asked.

He'd deactivated his suit shortly after they'd left the Helicarrier, leaving him in a long-sleeve t-shirt and jeans. For once, his expression was serious, his dark eyes focused, his mouth drawn into an unhappy line.

Natasha considered that for a moment. "Assuming that protocol is the same, it's likely that they'll be authorized to terminate with extreme prejudice. Their first priority will be to neutralize the threat. Intelligence can be gathered later - even from a corpse."

"Wonderful," Dr. Banner muttered.

Natasha glanced over at him, frowning faintly. He'd agreed, reluctantly, to join them on the ground when they reached the compound, but he'd warned them that he had no real way of controlling the Hulk once it was unleashed. Chances were, it wouldn't recognize the difference between friends and enemies. But, while it was a risk, it was a necessary one. The Hulk might just give them the edge they needed against Loki and the Red Room's forces. Banner still didn't seem convinced, however, and that worried her. They had no time for second guessing. Not now.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Rogers asked when Natasha's eyes found the picture of the compound once more.

"I can give you some intel about the layout of the base, but other than that, no. A lot may have changed in two years, and even if it hasn't, there's not much else I could offer. They made sure of that." She nodded at the compound pointedly. "You have a better chance of finding what we'll need in the files Dr. Banner took from the Helicarrier."

" _I copied everything I could find on the Red Room,"_ the scientist had explained before downloading the contents of his flash drive to the on-board computer.

Natasha had given the other files a cursory glance. Some of it she recognized: the minimal intel she had been able to provide when she arrived, Coulson's reports during S.H.I.E.L.D.'s manhunt for her and her subsequent bargaining with the agency. Both hers and Clint's full personnel files had been there too, including their medical files and psychological workups.

But, there was a lot that had been new to her as well, like a record of assassinations attributed to the Red Room - some of them may very well have been her work. She had no way of knowing. Next was a list of Russian officials believed to have connections to the Red Room, and speculation about the source of the program's funding. It was the field reports, though, that had interested her the most. S.H.I.E.L.D. had documented a number of other encounters with Red Room personnel, and several of the reports included surveillance photos. A short-haired blonde woman with fine features. A young man, barely out of his teens, with dark hair and dark eyes. An Hispanic woman with long, straight hair and tanned skin.

Had she known any of them? Trained with them? Worked with them?

She had no way of knowing that either.

"I'm not sure I understand," Thor interjected. "This Red Room…are they like your S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Stark snorted. "You could say that."

Rogers gave him a sharp look, then turned back to the Asgardian. "No, they're not like S.H.I.E.L.D, not really."

Stark looked incredulous. "You actually still believe that? After the stunt they pulled with the cube? Trying to use it to make weapons?"

"I don't know what to believe. But at least I'm pretty sure they're not plotting world domination. I can't say the same about the Red Room. I know their type. I've fought them."

Stark looked like he wanted to keep arguing, but it was Thor who spoke next, his tone brimming with regret.

"I'm sorry that my brother has brought this upon all of you."

Now it was Stark who turned narrowed eyes to the Asgardian. "Yeah, about that," he began. "You wanna explain how Loki got here in the first place? Or does your planet just not bother with the little things, like monitoring the criminally insane?"

Thor's expression darkened. "Have care how you speak. Loki is beyond reason, but he is of Asgard, and he's my brother."

"He killed eighty people in two days," Natasha pointed out flatly.

"He's adopted."

A long moment passed, and the Asgardian's gaze shifted to the cockpit windshield, where the sun was slowly sinking towards the horizon. Thor sighed heavily.

"Loki may not be of my blood," he continued at last, "but we were raised together…we played together…we fought together. He _is_ my brother. At least, I felt it was so. Perhaps Loki did not." Thor turned back to face them, his blue eyes solemn. "I blame myself. I should have seen that he was growing jealous…bitter. But I didn't, and because of that, he betrayed our family, our world. When he turned against us, Loki and I fought, and the battle did not end in his favor."

Rogers tilted his head thoughtfully. "So you believed he was dead?"

The Asgardian nodded. "We did. We mourned him. It wasn't until Heimdall saw his attack upon your people that we realized he still lived."

"Wait, he _saw_ it?" Stark repeated. "Saw it how, exactly?"

"Heimdall is charged with guarding our boarders. He keeps watch over Midgard as well. He sees many things."

"If he's so all-seeing, then why didn't he know Loki was alive?"

"Heimdall's sight is not all-powerful. Loki may have learned to shield himself somehow…perhaps with a spell."

"Then what happened? Why could he suddenly see him again?"

Thor sighed again. "Loki's arrival on Earth may have weakened him enough that, for a short time, he could not sustain the magic necessary to continue the spell. But now, undoubtedly, his strength has returned, and the spell shields his presence once more, so that Heimdall would not be able to aid us, even if I could return to Asgard and seek his help.  And I cannot. During my battle with Loki, I was forced to destroy the bridge which made travel between our worlds possible. My father's magic was strong enough to send me here, but he will need time to recover."

"In other words, we're on our own?"

"I fear it is so."

Dr. Banner frowned, folding his arms across his chest. "Hold on…if you knew you'd only be able to track Loki for a short time, why not head straight for him, before he cloaked himself?"

"Because Heimdall also saw that the Lady Natasha was in need. I chose to come to her aid instead. I felt I owed it to her, after our last encounter." Thor turned to meet her gaze, giving a small bow of his head. "You fought well and honorably…more honorably than I did."

Natasha's eyebrows rose faintly in surprise. "I was following orders - Coulson's orders."

"Nonetheless, I was arrogant, proud, and careless. For that, I am sorry."

The apology was unnecessary - the events in New Mexico mattered very little to her now - and it was also somewhat ironic, given her upbringing. Honor was not a concept the Red Room embraced. But she nodded all the same, sensing the moment's importance to Thor, and not wishing to offend him, if only because of his value as an ally. He might prove to be the only one among them who could match his brother, and at the very least, he offered them an insight into Loki that they wouldn't have had otherwise.

"Speaking of Loki," Stark interjected. "Got any idea what his end game is? He obviously plans to use the cube, but for what? A nightlight? A paperweight? Another portal? What?"

Thor looked pained. "That, I do not know. But…I believe it is a throne my brother seeks. He has been denied Asgard. Perhaps now he sets his sights on Earth."

The answer was met with grim silence by the men around her.

It wasn't a reassuring thought, especially when she recalled Loki's words in the underground lab about "a world made free." And, while it wasn't really a surprise to learn that Loki probably intended to claim Earth as his own, it was an unwelcome confirmation nonetheless.

Natasha was also starkly aware of the implications for Clint.

In a game of such high stakes, Clint was nothing but a pawn, a rather useless one now, since Loki had needed Clint only for the connection he could provide to the Red Room. If that was accomplished, as it seemed to be, then Clint had become entirely unnecessary. Disposable.

Would the Red Room feel the same if Loki had returned Clint to them? Was it better if they had simply executed Clint? Or should she hope that they'd chosen to integrate him back into the program?

She couldn't hope for that, not really. That was no life. But she couldn't wish for his death, either.

Almost unconsciously, her gaze found the picture of the Red Room's compound still on the screen, and her hand curled into a fist at her side.

The Red Room had taken so much from her already.

She wouldn't let them take Clint, too.

* * *

The rest of the flight was spent finalizing their plans, questioning Thor about his brother's history, and combing through the information Banner had collected about the Red Room...all but hers and Clint's psychological and medical files, which Rogers had declared to be off-limits.  Reading those files, he felt, would be an invasion of their privacy. (Stark had rolled his eyes at that, but the reaction seemed to have more to do with his opinion of Rogers, and less to do with the order itself.)

Natasha, however, had insisted that they examine Dr. Lawson's notes, as well as all of the neurological scans the doctor had taken, because the men who were with her needed to understand just what sort of enemy they were facing.

They did now, and she could still feel their uneasy gazes lingering on her back as she maneuvered the quinjet into the valley below.

The Red Room's base had been built in a large expanse of rugged tundra and barren rock that stretched out to the east. On the west, however, the shallow depression in which the base sat was surrounded by a sparse forest that extended over sprawling foothills. Those foothills gradually transitioned into a distant mountain range that was barely visible on the horizon. The natural highs and lows of the terrain would work to their advantage now.

The valley they'd chosen was a few miles away from the Red Room's compound, far enough, she hoped, to avoid any security the Red Room had in place. Radar, at least, wasn't a concern, and neither was thermal imaging. The quinjet's shielding rendered it invisible to even the most advanced systems. But, the noise of the engines could still be heard on the ground, and she wasn't certain if the Red Room had posted guards somewhere beyond the compound's parameter. She wasn't willing to take the chance that they had, and the others had agreed. They would land here, and hike the rest of the way to the compound.

The jet touched down, and they quickly set about checking their weapons and gathering their supplies, each taking a comm from the jet's cache of electronic equipment, hooking the small transmitters over their ears and setting them for the same frequency. The comm Coulson had given them was entrusted to Thor, who concealed it inside his armor with a flick of his hand.

The quinjet was stocked with some cold weather gear as well, though they turned out to need very little of it. The suit Coulson had helped create for Rogers apparently included some thermal enhancements, and Thor was oblivious to the frigid temperatures. Stark, for his part, had already donned his own suit once more, and a machine designed to protect him from the cold in the upper atmosphere would have no difficulty dealing with the bitter climate of northern Russia. So, in the end, she and Banner were the only ones to make use of the coats and gloves stored in the quinjet's aft compartment. Both the coats and the gloves were an institutional gray, but the hoods were lined with faux fur that was as white as the tundra outside. They were warm, so much so that Natasha wondered if the same textile scientists who had created her customized uniform had also designed the cold weather gear.

When they were as prepared as they could be, Natasha locked the quinjet with her command code, ensuring that anyone who attempted to enter it without prior authorization would activate the self-destruct. She also set the tracking beacon to begin transmitting in twelve hours. If their mission wasn't complete in that timeframe, then they'd likely be dead, and she didn't want the jet to fall into the Red Room's hands. Even if the Red Room's technicians couldn't board it, they would still be able to study the design. Better that S.H.I.E.L.D. find it again.

At last, she opened the rear hatch and the ramp lowered, filling the cabin with the familiar bite of the Siberian air and the scent pine, snow, ice, and damp earth.

Russia.

Once, perhaps, this would have been her home, but it wasn't now and never could be.

It was just one more thing the Red Room had stolen from her.

The trek through the forest itself was largely silent, with Stark and Thor taking the lead, cutting the trail ahead of the others. Rogers seemed to be dealing with the conditions almost as well as they were, and Banner, while clearly not as comfortable as Rogers, didn't seem to have much difficulty keeping up. Natasha made her own steps quick and light with the ease of long practice. She had deliberately taken up position at their six, her eyes scanning the forest as they walked, searching for threats.

There were none, though, and they made good time. They'd landed in Russia late in the evening, and now night had fallen so that a crescent moon hung high overhead, highlighting the ridge overlooking the compound.

They approached it cautiously, keeping low to the ground, then peering into the clearing below.

She did not expect the feeling that rose up within her at the sight of it.

Before, it had been a grainy black and white image on a screen, but here…she swallowed hard, her heart lurching in her chest, her vision blurring for a moment in a way that had nothing to do with the cold stinging her eyes. She could not name the feeling…wasn't even certain that such a thing _had_ a name. But it burned. It burned and ached like an old wound being torn open again.

She crushed the feeling ruthlessly. She couldn't afford to be distracted, not now.

Instead, she blinked away the moisture in her eyes and let her gaze sweep over the compound, comparing it against the satellite images they'd studied earlier. The pictures must have been fairly recent, because the compound was unchanged.

A tall fence ringed the parameter, topped with loops of barbed wire, and it was interrupted only by the lofty brick structures which served as guard towers. Inside the fence was a series of gray, concrete buildings that were arranged in a careful grid pattern, with larger buildings clustered on the left - the warehouses and storage facilities - and smaller buildings on the right - the soldiers' barracks and officers' quarters. The squat, rectangular buildings in the back housed the administrative offices, but it was the main complex at the center of it all that drew her eye. It was a massive, three-story building arranged in an L-shape, so that the "hook" of the "L" formed the build's main façade. It might have seemed innocuous if it weren't for the fact that the windows were barred with iron.

The training center.

There was no sign of Loki yet, but Natasha knew that if he was actually on the base, he would be there.

"What do you think?" Rogers asked quietly. "Is the road still our best bet?"

It was suddenly an effort to turn her head to look at the man beside her, to force the words past her lips, but she did it.

"Yes. The perimeter is too well guarded. They'd see us before we made it three feet."

The road, however, seemed promising. It was little more than a long, straight, treeless line that stretched far into the distance, but it continued on through the compound itself, passing through the main checkpoint, then curving around the buildings and stopping at one of the warehouses on the eastern side of the base. It was covered in snow like the rest of the landscape, but marked out by the tread of countless vehicles that had passed that way, coming and going.

"The road gives us a better chance."

Rogers nodded, and by mutual agreement, the group retreated to the forest once more.

"So?" Stark asked, when they were far enough away. "I take it we'll be hitchhiking in after all?"

Irritation flickered over Rogers' face at the description. Stark had settled on it as soon as they'd discussed the possibility of stowing aboard an in-coming vehicle as a means of infiltrating the base.

"It looks that way," the Captain answered.

It was Stark's turn to nod thoughtfully, then he turned to her and waved a hand in the direction of the road.

"Okay, Romanoff, do your thing - you might want to unzip that jacket a little, though. A thumb alone won't be enough to get their attention."

Rogers wasn't amused. "Stark," he warned.

"What? I'd do it, but I don't think they'd go for it." He struck an exaggerated pose, thrusting a hip sideways and resting his hand on it in a poor imitation of a come-hither stance. It looked even more ridiculous given his suit.

Banner hid a snicker behind his hand, and Thor seemed puzzled.

Natasha ignored them.

They had no way of knowing how often vehicles entered the base, and moreover, they didn't have time to find out. Even if they'd _had_ the time, it might not have done any good - it was entirely possible that vehicles departed or arrived at random, their schedules determined only by necessity. Moreover, not only did they need to find a vehicle - they needed to find the right _kind_ of vehicle. A covered jeep or humvee would be too small, and was more likely to have passengers who would notice an uninvited guest. Ideally, they needed some sort of truck, preferably one with few windows and a point of access they could use to climb inside unnoticed. The vehicle would be searched at the checkpoint, but they would simply have to deal with that as it came.

They didn't have a choice.

"We need to scout the area," Natasha said, already turning on her heel.

If the men behind her reacted to her brusque tone, she didn't see it.

They made their way to the road, then traveled up it for half a mile before they found a stretch that seemed promising. The majority of the road was flat, but here, it had been cut down through a series of small knolls, leaving elevated banks on each side. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best cover they were likely to find.

The plan was relatively simple. They would wait for a vehicle to approach, then leap aboard it as it passed. Their timing would have to be perfect, because they couldn't afford to disrupt the vehicle at all; the soldiers inside would be sure to investigate - and report - anything suspicious. They would have to spread out as well, and jump in small groups if not one at a time. There were several dips in the road, Natasha noticed - patches where the snow had melted then frozen into thick sheets of ice, making the surface uneven. If they were lucky, the soldiers aboard would assume that any jostling or noise was just a result of the rough terrain.

They positioned themselves along the banks, spread out on each side of the road. Natasha herself remained with Rogers who would give her a boost up into the air so that she could make the leap more easily, while Thor, Stark, and Banner would approach from the other direction. Banner was the only one who wouldn't be jumping alone, since he wasn't certain that he would be able to reach the truck in his human form, and no one wanted to risk unleashing the Hulk early. Stark had blithely offered to be the one to "give him a lift."

Then, they all settled in to wait.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	22. Infiltration Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter that I looked forward to writing forward to for ages. :D I hope you enjoy it, and of course, please let me know what you think!
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.

** Chapter 22 **

Natasha lay on her stomach, her torso and legs pressed to the cold ground, her elbows resting on the incline of the bank. Rogers was beside her, lying much the same way, though his left arm was outstretched, his shield strapped to it, and his head was angled for the best view of the road.

An hour passed and then another, the shadows of the trees around them shifting as the moon traveled slowly across the sky, marking the passage time.

A faint breeze picked up, stirring the branches above them, and that's when they heard it: the low rumble of an engine. The noise grew louder and headlights appeared in the distance, cutting through the darkness and shining over the snow. For a moment, it was difficult to see what sort of vehicle was approaching. But as it drew closer, it coalesced into a more familiar shape.

They were in luck.

It was a large utility truck, painted a greenish gray, with a three-person cab and a long bed that was covered by a tied-down canvas tarp. Natasha recognized it as a KamAZ Mustang - they had been a staple vehicle of the Russian military for decades, and were a familiar sight around the compound even when she was a child (during what little of those years she could remember, at least).

It was exactly what they needed.

Rogers nodded as though he'd somehow heard her thoughts, then touched the comm at his ear. "Okay," he announced. "This is it."

Natasha pushed herself up from the bank, and Rogers did the same, moving into a crouch and setting down his shield so that his hands were free.

Natasha followed him, keeping low but getting to her feet and flexing her knees.

Rogers hooked his hands together, lacing his fingers and forming a small platform just large enough for her boot.

"Ready?" he asked.

Natasha nodded, lifting her foot and pressing it against his hands, already beginning a mental countdown.

As soon as the truck drew close enough, Rogers threw her towards the road; she turned in mid air, twisting into a flip. The truck wasn't moving very fast, but her landing wasn't particularly neat - her torso hit the top of the truck bed, while her legs dangled down the side. Still, it was easy enough to catch the central metal support giving the tarp its shape, and from there she was able to shimmy down the side of the truck. Then, she began working her way around to the opening in the back.

Rogers appeared beside her a moment later, his own landing not much better than hers had been. The shield that was once again strapped to his left arm made a very faint metal _clang_ from the impact, but it was quickly lost in the rush of the wind as the truck moved down the road.

Thor was next, though Natasha heard rather than saw him make the jump on the other side of the truck, the low sound barely carrying over the noise of engine. Stark waited until the truck was a little farther down the road, then wrapped his arm over Banner's shoulders and pulled him up into the air. A moment later, Banner was being deposited on the roof of the truck bed, Stark landing beside him lightly, the repulsors in his suit winking out.

Through it all, the truck hadn't slowed or swerved, so, for the moment, it seemed that their arrival had gone unnoticed. They were fortunate, at least, that the truck was designed to carry large, heavy loads to begin with, so their combined weight barely caused a discernible dip in the body of the vehicle.

The tarp was tied over the back of the truck, the ends bunched together, stretching over the half-octagon that formed the bed's roof. The tarp was held in place by a black rope that was woven through metal eyelets, and though it was knotted tightly, it was relatively quick work to untie it and create an opening large enough for them to squeeze through. They tightened and retied the rope as soon as they were all inside.

It looked as though they were truly in luck - even in the limited light, it was clear that the truck wasn't carrying a full load. Large stacks of wooden crates lined both sides of the bed, but there was an aisle in the middle with enough space for them to be able to make their way along it. They did so, quietly moving closer to the cab.

Natasha was in the lead since it was the easiest for her to move in the confined space, and she let her gaze sweep over the crates, searching for something, anything they might use for cover when they reached the check point. The crates themselves were out - none of them were large enough to conceal a fully grown adult, let alone men who were the size of Thor and Captain Rogers.

When she reached the end of the narrow passage, she turned and her gaze landed on the sides of truck bed which were cast in shadow. It didn't look like the crates were braced against the walls - maybe they had been at one point, but the journey had shifted them. Frowning, Natasha slid along the wall until she reached the darkness, and then she stretched out her arm. Her lips curved faintly when her hand met only emptiness. It wasn't a large space, maybe half of the size of the aisle, but just large enough, perhaps, to be what they needed.

It was.

By the time they felt the truck pulling to a stop, they were all hidden behind the crates, pressed against the walls of the truck as tightly as they could be without disturbing the tarp behind them.

It was utterly silent as well. Stark had even deactivated his suit so that it was soundless and dark, missing the usual glow of his helmet's eye slits and the whir of the servo motors.

Russian voices filtered in from outside, exchanging brisk greetings and verifying ID before there was a noise at the back of the truck as the tarp was opened and the tailgate was unlatched for inspection.

From her vantage point, Natasha could see only the silhouette of the solider who climbed into the truck, shining a flashlight over the crates as he examined them. For a moment, she held her breath, wondering if the beam would land on a piece of reflective armor. But, after a few seconds, the soldier clicked off the flashlight, then turned and hopped down from the bed of the truck, closing the tailgate and calling out the all-clear.

They were in.

The truck rumbled to life again as it pulled into the base, making a brief circuit around the compound before pulling into what Natasha assumed was one of the warehouses they'd seen earlier. The engine shut off, then doors in the cab opened and the murmur of voices followed a second time as the soldiers left the vehicle.

Again, there was silence.

Natasha slipped quietly from her place behind the crates and cautiously made her way to the back of the vehicle. The truck was obviously set to be unloaded because the tarp had been left open, but for the moment, no one was nearby.

She signaled to the others, and they followed behind her, easing out from the behind the crates, climbing over the tailgate, and landing quietly on the warehouse floor.

The warehouse was organized almost like an industrial one, with large metal shelves arranged in rows, holding stacks of supplies. The area where their truck had been parked was obviously designated for loading and off-loading, because there were a number of other utility vehicles nearby.

Both the vehicles and the shelves made good covered as the group moved deeper into the warehouse, keeping low but moving at a quick jog as they searched for an exit. They found one at the back of the warehouse and slipped silently out into the night.

Here in the compound, amidst the buildings, it was far more difficult to distinguish the base's layout. Asphalt paved the pathways between the buildings, making the compound a dark, utilitarian maze, though two large, open areas had been deliberately preserved and were covered in a light gray concrete. The first was adjacent to the training center, and it served as the parade grounds. Natasha remembered standing there herself at strict attention, one of many in the perfectly straight rows of young initiates, though the faces of those around her were blurry and indistinct in her mind's eye. The other tract of open space was even bigger, almost a courtyard or a field, and it was used as a staging area, or sometimes an outdoor training ground.

It was fairly easy to avoid the open spaces and stick to the shadows instead, so that the group's trip across the compound was relatively quick. Thankfully, it was late enough now that aside from the guards stationed at the perimeter, and the occasional soldier making his rounds, the compound itself was mostly silent, many of the buildings dark.

The training center, when they reached it, was not dark, however. It was past lights-out, and the initiates would be in their bunks as ordered, but as always, the trainees were watched, the doctors performed their research, and the scientists conducted their experiments.

It didn't stop. It never stopped.

Natasha stared up at the building, her hands finding the guns at her sides almost unconsciously, a burning ache flaring in her chest once more.

It was harder, this time, to push the feeling aside.

The group had stopped on the pathway beside the parade grounds, and they were hidden in the shelter offered by the building's shortest portion, the lower hook of the "L." But, beyond the parade grounds behind them was the largest of the concrete spaces, meaning they had no cover whatsoever from that direction. They would have to be quick.

They'd agreed earlier that the best way to enter the building would be from the roof, since security was likely concentrated on the main floor, and fortunately, climbing equipment wasn't necessary...not when they had two men who could fly.

Natasha moved to stand next to Stark, who also had his head tilted back to study the training center

"Third floor: mad scientists, psychopaths, and brains washed while you wait," he muttered darkly.

It might have seemed flippant if it weren't for the tension in his voice…the underlying disgust.

Natasha could appreciate that.

She reached out to wrap her arms around Stark's neck so he could carry her to the roof, and that's when she heard it. It was the sound of something small cutting through the air, barely perceptible even in the quiet.

Natasha wasn't sure what to make of it until Dr. Banner slumped to the ground, unmoving.

She jumped away from Stark, drawing both guns automatically and spinning away from the building, turning to face the clearing instead. The others did the same. Stark dropped into a half crouch, both hands outstretched, the stabilizers on his arms whining as they charged. Rogers and Thor took up position on each side of them; Rogers, who was closer to Natasha, had his shield held high, and Thor, on Stark's other side, had his hammer raised, but for the moment, there was no other sign of an attack.

The compound remained quiet, and the guards stationed at the perimeter still seemed unaware of their presence.

Eyes narrowed, never dropping his guard, Rogers crept forward and quickly knelt down beside Banner, pressing the fingers of his free hand to the fallen man's throat.

"He okay?" Stark asked.

Rogers stood, a muscle ticking along his jaw. "He's alive. But he's out."

He held out his hand, palm open, revealing a small dart.

A dart. A dart that must have been loaded with an incredibly powerful sedative. A sedative obviously designed with Banner in mind.

An ambush.

_It was an ambush_.

The realization came just before another, different sound, one Natasha felt, rather than heard.

The pain began in her ears, a dull ache that rapidly turned into something much sharper, and then it seemed to spread outwards until every muscle in her body spasmed, clenching and unclenching in rapid succession, until, suddenly…they stopped.

Everything stopped.

She couldn't blink. She could barely breathe.

A small, choked sound escaped her throat and her legs suddenly gave way so that she found herself face-down on the cold ground beside Banner.

Her head was turned just enough that from the corner of her eye, she could see that she wasn't the only one affected. Rogers was doubled over, fighting a slow battle to remain upright, but eventually he landed on his knees, his teeth clenched.

She couldn't see Thor, who was on Stark's other side, but judging from the ragged breaths and stumbling steps she that heard over the pounding in her own head, she assumed that whatever this was, he hadn't escaped it either.

Stark, however, seemed to have done just that - his suit was probably designed to filter sound, if that's what had caused this. He stood there for a moment, his head turning as though he were scanning the base, then he shot into the air, the glow of his repulsors bright in the night sky as he gained altitude.

She understood why he'd done it a moment later when she heard the footsteps surrounding them. Dozens of soldiers were emerging from the shadows and the nearby buildings, their weapons drawn, the red beams from their targeting sites scattered over the snow.

Her back was probably covered with them.

A sudden explosion ripped through the air - Stark's doing, she assumed. She couldn't see what he had hit, but either he'd found something combustible, or his suit was equipped with missiles. Whatever the case, the force of the blast was enough send the soldiers staggering back; a few were knocked off their feet completely.

But the detonation wasn't close enough to do any real damage - it couldn't be, not unless Stark was willing to risk losing one of his teammates to friendly fire. There was another explosion a second later, a little farther in the distance, and Natasha knew that he was probably hoping to draw away the troops that were surrounding them.

It might have worked, if it weren't for the sudden press of cold metal at Natasha's temple. She would have tensed, if she could have - the noise of the explosions must have covered the soldier's approach.

She wasn't alone. Beside her, Rogers, who was still on his knees, was now being held upright by a soldier almost as large as he was. The soldier had one muscular arm wrapped tightly around Rogers' throat, his gun pressed to Rogers' head.

She heard a struggle behind her as well, grunts of pain and the sound of flesh hitting flesh. It was clear that Thor wasn't as weakened as she and Rogers had been; he seemed to still be on his feet and able to fight, given the way that many of the soldiers around her had run in that direction. But the noise eventually died down, reduced to frustrated, unintelligible growls on Thor's part.

As soon as he was restrained, the soldiers in her line of sight parted, and a gray-haired man stepped forward, somehow looking as though he belonged there despite the charcoal business suit he wore.

The Polkovnik.

He hadn't changed much since she'd seen him last; the lines on his face were perhaps a bit deeper, the gray in his hair slightly more pronounced, but he carried himself the same way, his shoulders back, his spine straight, his slim frame held almost at attention.

His blue eyes swept the scene, and when his gaze landed on her, his lips curled in a very faint smile. Natasha's heart lurched in her chest, fear skirting down her spine and curling in her stomach before the Polkovnik moved on, striding past her and further out into the open.

Whatever Stark had destroyed was still burning, and the red-orange light reflected off the Polkovnik's glasses, obscuring his eyes as he tilted his head towards the night sky.

"Mr. Stark," he called. His voice was deceptively mild, but there was no mistaking the tone of command.

Stark must have heard it too, because he paused his attacks long enough to draw closer to them, but he stayed far enough away to avoid making himself an easy target, and he remained in the air, hovering in place.

Stark cocked his head "Yes?"

"Surrender or your friends die."

"Friends? Not really." Stark shrugged. "I just met them. Don't even like most of 'em."

"So you will not mind if we kill them, then?"

Natasha felt the barrel of the gun press harder against her temple.

"Surrender, Mr. Stark, or they die," the Polkovnik repeated. "You are fast, but not that fast, I think. You cannot save them."

Stark was silent.

The Polkovnik smiled a thin-lipped smile. "Perhaps a demonstration is in order." He glanced at the soldier guarding Natasha. "Demitri."

The gun by Natasha's head was cocked, the soldier's finger tightening on the trigger.

"No!" Stark shouted. "Wait! Just wait."

Stark raised his hands and slowly began his descent into the clearing.

"Excellent," the Polkovnik said. "I had hoped you would be cooperative. You understand, of course, that in this same…cooperative spirit, as a condition of your surrender, you will exit that marvelous suit."

Stark didn't respond, but the moment he touched the ground, his suit opened, splitting along an invisible seam, and he stepped out of it, his hands still raised, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing. The suit closed behind him an instant later, empty, but sealing with a pressurized hiss. Stark strode forward then, stopping only when he was a few feet away from the Polkovnik.

The Polkovnik seemed amused by that show of subtle defiance, and he tilted his head thoughtfully as he regarded the billionaire. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and removed a small, gray cylindrical device, holding it up for Stark's inspection.

A look of horrified recognition flicker across Stark's face.

"How did you get…?" He trailed off, his eyes locked on the device once more.

The Polkovnik offered an elegant shrug. "You are a genius, are you not, Mr. Stark? Surely you already know the answer to that. Obadiah Stane drove a hard bargain, but it was always well worth it."

Stark looked almost ill now. "He sold to you?"

"He did indeed. This device, among others."

The Polkovnik slipped the device back inside his jacket, then he reached for his ears, which Natasha realized, were blocked by some sort of earplug that glowed faintly blue. A quick glance at the soldiers showed that they were similarly equipped. The Polkovnik removed the plugs and clipped them together, resulting in a soft, electronic chirp; they joined the device in his pocket.

As though the move was some sort of signal, a group of soldiers broke away to surround Stark, their guns raised. They barked at him to put his hands behind his head, and when he did, they pushed him roughly to his knees.

Thor must have seen that as a moment to act, because she heard him struggling again, yelling out a challenge.

Mocking laughter followed, but it wasn't from the Polkovnik.

It took Natasha only a moment to place the voice it belonged to, though she'd only heard it once, in the underground lab. She managed to turn her eyes in the direction the laugher had come from, and she watched as Loki materialized from the shadows. He was grinning widely and holding his staff, the blue glow casting his features in stark relief, and he was dressed in a dark suit, as though he'd decided to embrace Earth's fashions. He wore a black tie as well, and a matching trench coat that hung to his knees. The only color he wore came in the form of a green and gold scarf that dangled around his neck. Natasha wondered if it was a deliberate nod to the green and gold armor he had worn when he arrived.

It was the man standing behind him that held Natasha's attention, though.

_Clint_.

He was as still as a statue, his eyes glowing that unnatural blue. It shouldn't have been a comforting sight, but in a strange way it was, if only because it meant that that Red Room hadn't reclaimed him, not yet. He was under Loki's control, not theirs.

He held a gun in his hands, a dart gun, recognizable because of its long, slender barrel. He had obviously been the one to shoot Banner. That, too, was almost encouraging. It meant that he was still seen to have some value, if only for his skills as a sniper. Perhaps Loki didn't plan to give him back to the Red Room after all.

An angry snarl drew Natasha from her thoughts.

"Loki!" Thor spat, his breathing ragged. "What have you done? What sort of magic is this?"

Loki strode forward, walking around Natasha as though she weren't even there. He moved beyond where she could see, but his voice carried.

"Not magic. Technology. This world is rife with it. Even we are not immune to some of their creations." There was a deliberate, amused pause, then: " _Obviously_."

Thor growled, and he must have been straining against the soldiers holding him in place because she could hear feet scrapping along the ground, as though they were being dragged.

"Release us!" Thor demanded. "Now!"

Loki laughed again. "Oh, you're through giving me orders, brother."

There was a flash of blue light from that direction, one that reflected on the snow around Natasha, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body falling limply to the ground.

She instinctively reacted to it, trying to move, but her body simply refused to obey her mind's furious commands. Her fingers didn't so much as twitch.

An instant later, another explosion ripped through the compound. Natasha shifted her attention back to the clearing where Stark had landed, and she immediately saw the cause: where Stark's suit once stood, there was only a scorched patch of earth and a few twisted pieces of metal.

Another quick look at Stark showed her that he was smirking darkly, obviously satisfied, and she knew that the explosion was also his doing. She wondered if the self-destruct had been set on a timer, or if Stark had some way of detonating it whenever he wished.

The Polkovnik studied the destruction much the way she had, a small flicker of irritation visible before his face slid back into its usual composed mask.

"You try my patience, Mr. Stark. But no matter. You will build another."

Stark scoffed. "I'm not building anything for you."

This time the Polkovnik's smile was chilling. "You say that as though you'll have a choice."

The Polkovnik waved his hand and the soldier behind Stark struck him on the head with the butt of his rifle. Stark slumped over, crumpling to the ground, and to her right, Natasha saw Captain Rogers suffering the same fate.

When the gun left her temple, she knew that she was next, and her eyes immediately found Clint again, still standing in the shadows where Loki had left him.

His unnaturally blue eyes were the last thing she saw before there was a sharp blow at the back of her skull and then everything went black.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	23. Captive Audience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I'm sort of wondering if "you break it, you buy it" applies… *tries to look innocent*
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 23  **

Awareness came slowly.

There was a roaring in Natasha's ears when her senses returned, like coming up from a deep pool. Her head throbbed dully and a low groan rose in her throat, but she instinctively choked back the noise and lay still, waiting for the fog to clear.

Memories of the last several days trickled in gradually at first, and then rushed back into place at once. Her heart started pounding in her chest, and she immediately willed her pulse to slow, but it was too late - if she was being watched, they already knew that she was conscious.

Natasha tensed, every nerve vibrating. The chill in the air told her that the coat and gloves she'd been wearing were gone, and the familiar weight of her weapons was absent as well. Her eyes snapped open. She'd expected to find a guard or a doctor looming over her, maybe even the Polkovnik himself, but she was alone. A metal ceiling gleamed dully above her, a single florescent bulb the only visible source of light.

A fleeting sense of recognition bubbled up within her, and she allowed her gaze travel around the rest of the space. It was a cell, one that was small and relatively bare; the floor was concrete, but the walls were metal like the ceiling and it was windowless. A small opening in the door offered a narrow view of the hallway outside, and vents marked each side of the room, allowing the air to circulate. She was laying on a simple bunk which faced the door, and that sense of recognition returned, more powerfully this time.

She didn't have a chance to dwell on it, however, because the moment she moved, sitting up on her bunk, there was a noise somewhere nearby.

"Romanoff? That you?"

Stark.

Natasha blinked, and then her eyes narrowed as she tried to decide where his voice had come from. Her gaze fell on the vents near the ceiling. His voice seemed to have come from somewhere on her right, and she swung her legs over the edge of her bunk, intending to stand and walk closer to the wall on that side of the cell. But as soon as her feet hit the floor, her head throbbed sharply and her stomach churned. She closed her eyes again, swallowing hard and willing the feeling away.

"It's me," she confirmed at last, though she didn't try to stand again.

Her voice had been thick despite her best efforts, and Stark must have heard it because he scoffed.

"You sound like I feel. For the record: ow."

Natasha drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, then opened her eyes once more.

"Rogers said he saw you getting dragged over there before they tossed him into a cell of his own," Stark continued. "He woke up first. 'Guess being a lab rat has some perks."

"So does having a thick skull, Stark, " Rogers returned darkly. "You should know."

His voice was coming from the same direction as Stark's, but it sounded farther away, a little more muffled. If Stark and Rogers were both in cells like hers, then Natasha assumed that Rogers' cell was on the other side of the billionaire's. She wondered suddenly how long Stark had been awake - maybe a while if Rogers was already at the point of answering Stark's barbs with some of his own.

Then again, the Red Room had undoubtedly been careful not to hit Stark too hard - his brain was too valuable for them to risk damaging it permanently. Damaging his intellect, in any case. She could already guess what they had planned for the rest of his mind.

"What about Banner?" she asked. "Thor?"

"Don't know," Rogers admitted. "I haven't seen them since we were outside."

Stark snorted. "They probably have their own custom suites, real luxury accommodations. Like Rogers over there. He's a little tied up."

"You're restrained?"

"That's one way to put it," Rogers answered. "I'm in some sort of…metal straightjacket, and whatever it's made out of, I can't break it. I guess they weren't taking any chances."

No, Natasha agreed silently, they weren't, not that she'd expect any less.

Rogers's thoughts much have been along the same lines, because he made a derisive sound.

"We played right into their hands, didn't we? Handed ourselves over, practically gift-wrapped."

He wasn't wrong. They should have seen it for the trap it was -  _she_ should have seen it. But she hadn't. Had she been too blinded by her worry for Clint? Or had she simply underestimated them?

Either way, she'd failed.

"Yeah," Stark agreed, almost as though he knew what she was thinking. "We walked into their trap like gullible little superheroes. We can feel like idiots later."

" _Let's get out of here now,"_  remained unspoken, but Natasha heard it all the same, and she was sure that Rogers had as well. She could guess why Stark had chosen not to say it. A quick look around her own cell revealed no visible cameras or listening devices, but it was possible that they were just particularly well-hidden.

"You have something have in mind?" Roger's asked carefully.

"I'm working on it," Stark answered unconvincingly.

The silence that followed must have seemed accusatory, because Stark sighed.

"Look, who do you think I am? MacGyver? All I have is the clothes on my-" There was a thoughtful pause. "Huh."

Natasha frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

The words were quick, bitten off, distracted. She didn't believe them, but she didn't press.

She heard footsteps in his cell, and then the creak of the springs on his bunk and the rustle of fabric. She wasn't sure what to make of it, but she hoped that he would be able to conceal whatever he was doing, if that was his goal. The blanket on the bunk, after all, seemed to be the only sort of cover available in these cells.

Silence fell again, disrupted only by the faint rustling noises she could hear from Stark.

Eventually, Rogers spoke again.

"So, if escaping is off the table right now," he began pointedly, obviously for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, "how do we fight them?"

"You don't."

The statement fell from her lips before she had time to consider it - it was instinct, almost, an instinct that two years of freedom had apparently failed to suppress - but for all that, it was no less true. When she'd escaped, she'd done it all outside, away from the Red Room's immediate control, using what little bit of freedom she had to prepare, to plan. But here, inside the Red Room itself, fighting wasn't an option.

It was Stark who answered her this time. He still sounded distracted and his voice was more muffled than it had been, but his tone was darker and harder than anything she'd heard from him yet.

"Funny, but I've heard that sort of thing before. Didn't listen then and don't plan to listen now."

Natasha shook her head at his certainty. "The Red Room isn't the Ten Rings, Stark. They'll take you and shape you into whatever they want you to be, and eventually, you won't resist because you won't remember that you were supposed to."

"But you did," Rogers pointed out. "You fought them."

Yes. Because of Clint.

She couldn't even begin to explain that, though, didn't know why or how meeting Clint had changed her. She didn't even  _remember_  meeting him, not really. All she had left of that time were a few, fragmented memories.

Still, it had been enough. More than enough.

"That was different," she said quietly.

She'd tried to keep her tone neutral, but perhaps she hadn't succeeded because for a long moment, neither Rogers or Stark spoke.

"Well," the billionaire prodded eventually, "the least you can do is give us a few pointers. You know, 'How To Resist Brainwashing 101.'"

"I doubt they'll give me that chance."

"What do you mean?" Rogers asked.

"The Red Room doesn't tolerate traitors."

The pause that followed this time was filled with grim understanding.

"You think they're going to execute you."

"I know they will."

Chances were, she'd only been kept alive thus far because the Red Room wanted to question her. Once that was finished, they'd no longer have any reason to keep her breathing. In a strange way, that was almost a relief, if only because it meant she wouldn't be  _theirs_ , not again.

"No," Rogers insisted. "It won't come to that. We'll get out of here."

The words were infused with all the determination and optimism one would expect from the Captain who'd helped rally a nation during WWII. His resolve reminded her of the boy she'd met so long ago…maybe even in cells just like these. The boy who'd inspired her to fight. But she knew what the Red Room had done to that boy…what they would probably do to these men.

Natasha released a quiet breath and sat back on her bunk, leaning against the wall behind her, her elbows on her knees and her eyes locked on the door of her cell.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

When they did come a few hours later, it was the footsteps she heard first, footsteps that echoed both in the corridor outside and in her memory. The familiar cadence grew louder, and Natasha pushed herself up from the bunk. Her head throbbed again with the movement, but she ignored it and stood.

The rustling from Stark's cell died down as the guards drew closer, and she hoped that whatever he was doing hadn't progressed enough to draw their attention. It seemed that it hadn't because they passed Stark's cell without a second glance.

She wasn't surprised when they stopped in front of hers.

For a moment, she thought about resisting, but she knew that in the end it would accomplish nothing. The guards were undoubtedly prepared for a fight, and given the way her head still ached, it wouldn't take much for them to disable her. If anything, it would only guarantee that she entered her interrogation worse off than she was now, and considering the methods the Red Room used, she would need whatever strength she had to endure them.

So, she watched impassively as her cell door opened, then turned her gaze to the guards outside. There were eight of them, each with their hands resting on their side-arms.

The guard nearest the door drew his gun, using it to wave her forward. "Убирайся."  _Out._

She waited a beat before she complied, and when a muscle ticked along the guard's jaw in irritation, her lips curled faintly. It was a bit petty, perhaps, but satisfying nonetheless.

The moment she stepped into the hallway, the guards surrounded her, staggering their positions to block her escape.

"Положите руки за спиной," one of them demanded sharply.  _Put your hands behind your back._

They didn't wait for her to obey them this time. After only a second's hesitation, her arms were wrenched behind her back and cold metal cuffs were snapped around her wrists. Her fingers curled a little, but she offered them no other reaction, keeping her expression blank.

"двигаться," the same man ordered.  _Move._

She started down the corridor and the guards moved with her.

They passed Stark's cell first, and through the small opening in the door, she was surprised to see that he was standing, his arms crossed over his chest. He was staring at the guards as they passed, his eyes dark, filled with what could only be described as hatred.

They passed Rogers' cell a moment later, and she caught a glimpse of the "metal straightjacket" he had described. It was locked around his neck and waist, pinning his arms to his chest, his hands concealed in thick, metal gauntlets. Given the way he hadn't moved any closer to the door, she assumed that the device was probably anchored to the wall as well. His gaze, though, was as hard as Stark's. It softened only when his eyes met hers, and then she saw the same reassurance he'd tried to offer her before.

Natasha found that she appreciated the gesture, fleeting as her glimpse of him had been. But soon, she and the guards had left the cells behind. She felt an unwelcome sense of déjà vu as she walked, the all-too familiar sight of the concrete and steel bringing to mind the many times she'd been down these halls before.

Perhaps this time would be the last.

That seemed likely when their journey through the building ended in the cold, damp corridors of the basement, the area often reserved for…disposal. She was brought to a small, barren room, one with a drain in the center of the floor. The reddish-brown stains surrounding it made its purpose obvious. Nearby, there was a tall, free-standing metal slab that would have looked vaguely like an up-ended table if it weren't for the thick metal shackles welded to its face.

Natasha was pushed forward roughly, her hands un-cuffed and her back pressed against the slab with quick efficiency. Her arms were yanked up and the shackles snapped around her wrists. She was fortunate, she supposed, that though the chains were short, they weren't mounted high enough that she would be forced to stand on her toes. Shackles were snapped around her ankles next, their harsh edges evident even through the material of her boots.

The guards tugged at her bonds for a moment to ensure that they were secure, then apparently satisfied, they stepped back and filed swiftly out of the room. Natasha watched them go before she let her gaze sweep her surroundings, hoping to find something that might give her an advantage.

That was when she heard it: the soft foot-fall behind her.

She tensed; the slab made it impossible to see anything from that direction, but she twisted as much as her chains would allow, her eyes narrowed.

"Покажи себя," she demanded.  _Show yourself._

A soft, amused sound followed. "Ah, Natalia, I must admit, I have missed you."

Natasha froze, her throat suddenly dry.

The Polkovnik stepped around the slab a moment later, his hands clasped behind his back.

"You always had such spirit, regardless of whose memories you were stamped with. You were…unique." He shook his head. "Unfortunately, those same qualities also made your training quite a risky endeavor. They warned me in the beginning that you would bear watching. Perhaps I was too lenient."

Natasha's jaw clenched, her hands curling into fists above her. There were a thousand things she'd imagined saying to this man if given the chance, but none of them seemed to make it past her lips now. Her heart was pounding in her chest, whether from hatred or fear, she wasn't sure.

The Polkovnik stepped closer, reaching out to take her chin in his hand, tilting her head back to examine her, the way a collector might examine a prized specimen. She sneered and wrenched her head away, glaring at him furiously through the locks of hair that fell across her face.

He smirked faintly in return. "It is tempting to try again, you know, to wipe your mind entirely and start from the beginning. Or perhaps we could simply alter you the way we altered Mr. Barton." Natasha stiffened at mention of Clint, and the Polkovnik's smirk grew. "Oh, yes, Mr. Barton. I am curious how it is that you were able to retain your memories of him. I assumed that your strange attachment to him had been severed. Yet, here you are once again to - how would America's Hollywood say it? - 'rescue him from our evil clutches'? You must still be quite devoted."

"I told you it was so, did I not?"

Natasha's eyes darted to a dark corner of the room as Loki stepped forward from the shadows. He wore the same suit she'd seen earlier, and his staff was clutched loosely in his right hand. He moved nearer, his smirk mirroring the Polkovnik's.

"It would be easy for me to turn her, if that is your wish," he offered, waving the staff for emphasis.

Natasha's stomach lurched at his words and her fists tightened until her muscles shook. She would not be anyone's puppet, not again. She would rather be dead.

The Polkovnik's head tilted in contemplation, the light glinting off his glasses with the movement.

"Thank you," he told Loki at last, "but…no. Somehow, I think she would be more trouble than she's worth - she and Mr. Barton both. And imagine the example it would set. Rebellion in any form cannot be tolerated."

Loki was positively grinning now. "I agree."

The Polkovnik gave the Asgardian a small bow. "I shall leave her in your capable hands." He straightened and started for the door, pausing to glance back in her direction. "Goodbye, Natalia."

Then he was gone.

Natasha allowed her hands to uncurl and turned her gaze to Loki. It was strange, in a way, that this man, this alien who claimed the status of a demigod, failed to elicit the reaction from her that the Polkovnik did. He simply did not inspire the same primal fear the Polkovnik had cultivated as he'd ripped her mind to pieces time and time again, making what he would of the remains.

Loki must have seen the change in her demeanor, because his eyes narrowed faintly.

"Natasha, is it? Isn't that what you call yourself now?" He paused deliberately. "It is, after all, what your precious Hawk called you."

Natasha jerked in surprise. "What?"

"Oh, I see. You don't actually remember that, do you?"

"How would you know what he called me?"

"Barton told me, of course. Or, at least his mind did. The memories are still there, they're simply…inaccessible. For him, but not for me." Loki gave his staff a little twirl, then bent at the waist until his face was only a few inches from hers. "I learned such interesting things. His thoughts were full of you - even muddled as they were."

Natasha's breath caught for an instant, and she blinked, caught off-guard for a reason she couldn't name.

Loki drew back, his Cheshire-cat grin wider than ever before. "I couldn't help but be intrigued. You remember so very little of what happened - yet you've risked your life for him more than once. Why? Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"

Natasha grit her teeth. "Love is for children. I owe him a debt."

"A debt?" Loki repeated. He paused thoughtfully, as though reviewing all the facts he had at his disposal. "Ah, I think I understand. He told you that you could fight them, and it gave you courage, is that it? Courage enough to break free from your masters."

Natasha remained silent, but the triumphant gleam in his eyes told her that he knew he was right. She felt exposed suddenly, exposed in a way she never had before, as though something essential to her being had been put on display for Loki's amusement. She had the sudden, wild impulse to leap at his throat despite the chains holding her in place.

Some of what she felt must have shown on her face, because Loki threw back his head and laughed. "So, you thought to balance the books by saving him in return, and then by doing so you would…what? Somehow redeem yourself?" Loki shook his head and turned on his heel, walking around the slab until he disappeared behind it.

He reappeared on her other side, voice suddenly low, the words delivered beside her ear in a furious whisper. "Your ledger is dripping, it's gushing red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors. But they are a part of you, and they will never go away! You're the Red Room's creation and you always will be…much like your Hawk."

Natasha raised her chin, her jaw clenched. "He isn't mine."

"No?" Loki challenged. "Let's find out, shall we?"

The Asgardian waved his staff, and as if summoned, Clint appeared in the doorway and walked obediently to Loki's side. The unnatural blue of his eyes stood out even more sharply in the dim light of the room.

Loki walked around him once, like a shark circling its prey, and Natasha started pulling at her chains, dread curling in her stomach. Loki grinned at her reaction and raised his staff to press it against Clint's sternum.

Clint's whole body stiffened, the muscles in his neck cording suddenly. The neon blue of his eyes seemed to brighten before it vanished entirely, leaving the familiar blue-gray in its wake. He stood there for a moment, blinking rapidly, then he doubled over, his hands coming up to clutch at his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as his eyes squeezed shut. He staggered back, a strange, wordless noise escaping from his throat, his chest heaving raggedly. For a fleeting instant, Clint's eyes opened again, and his gaze met hers, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped limply to the floor.

Natasha wrenched at the metal binding her wrists, her eyes locked on Clint's unmoving form, on his chest, willing it to rise.

But it didn't, and Loki's satisfied laughter echoed in her ears.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ducks rotten fruit* I know, I know…but please stick with me! The story isn't over yet. :D
> 
> After I post the next chapter, I will have caught up posting the chapters I have written. Then, updates will be a lot slower, but I will do my best. :)


	24. Memory Lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N2: As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Chapter 24 **

Natasha stared.

A cold emptiness had settled somewhere in the vicinity of her chest and made her throat and eyes burn with denial. She was vaguely aware of Loki moving closer to her now, a shark who'd smelled fresh blood in the water, but her eyes stayed on Clint.

His features were lax, paler than she'd ever seen them, and the only color in his face came from the dark circles around his eyes. It looked like he hadn't been allowed to sleep for days, and the skin was swollen, nearly bruised. Even the normally shallow lines on his forehead were more pronounced, as though stress and pain had etched them deeper.

Natasha's gaze settled there for a long moment, something - instinct maybe - telling her to watch, and as she did, Clint's brow furrowed faintly, so faintly she doubted that anyone else would have even seen it.

But she had, and dead men didn't frown.

Her focus darted back to his chest, and  _there_. Movement. It was barely discernible and strained, but he was breathing again.

He was breathing.

Natasha dragged her eyes away from Clint at last, turning to face Loki once more.

"What did you do to him?" she demanded.

Loki raised his eyebrows in feigned innocence. "I healed him, of course."

Natasha snarled at the sarcasm.

Loki smirked, dropping the pretense. "Why should it matter to you what I've done? I thought he wasn't yours."

 _He's not_ , she wanted to say.  _Clint belongs to himself_. She knew that wasn't what Loki really meant by his taunting, but she refused to play that game.

"What. Did. You. Do?" she grit out again.

"I'd say I expanded his mind." The Asgardian smiled at his own cleverness, then leaned forward, lowering his voice as though confiding a secret. "I really did heal him. All that damage, all the alterations the Red Room made…gone in the blink of an eye, and his memories returned…every single one." Loki's lips twisted mournfully, and he shook his head. "Unfortunately, the human mind is so very fragile…I'm afraid it simply couldn't take the strain."

Those words seemed to flow like ice water down her spine, and Natasha's gaze flickered back to Clint before she could stop it.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

Loki had healed him.

_His memories returned…every single one…_

How many times had she longed to hear those words? For Clint…and for herself. So much had been taken from her…from them. She wanted to know who she was. Who  _they_  were. What Clint had meant to her once…and what she'd meant to him in return.

All of it, she'd wanted it all…and Loki had just given it back. But he'd turned it into a weapon, a weapon he'd used against Clint.

Would he use it against her, too?

As if reading her thoughts, Loki stepped closer still until there was less then a foot between them. He reached out with his staff, tracing the tip along the curve of her jaw in the parody of a lover's caress. Natasha sneered and leaned back as far as she could, but the metal slab behind her cut the motion short, and Loki moved the staff lower, drawing it down her neck, stopping at her collar bone, the sharp point resting against her skin.

"Can you imagine it?" he asked. "Remembering everything you've ever done? Everything they've made you do? Every person you've killed? All the blood you've spilled? All that red in your ledger?"

Natasha met his gaze, refusing to be cowed, but her heart was pounding hard in her chest, ignoring her commands to slow. When Loki's eyes darted to the pulse point in her throat, she knew he'd seen it too.

He grinned, and that was all the warning she had before the world was lost in a flash of blue, and every nerve was on fire, somehow both hot and cold at once. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't, the sound swallowed up by the cacophony in her mind, a furious roar that seemed to issue from every synapse in her brain.

Something flared behind her eyes, a light tinted that same electric blue, and the light coalesced into images, splintered images that moved too quickly for her to follow at first. But gradually, the images began to slow, to crystallize, to become something she could feel, taste, touch.

… _the gun was heavy, and it shook as she raised it…_

… _she landed hard on the mat, the wind forced from her lungs…_

… _the cell was freezing, and she shivered, tucking her knees against her chest in a desperate bid for warmth…_

… _her hands glistened with red, so much red, and the scent of copper was heavy in the air…_

The fragmented memories appeared one after another, and she could sense Loki sifting through them, lingering for an instant and then moving on, like a channel surfer looking for something interesting to watch.

There were a few of the memories, however, that he allowed to play out more fully.

_They were sitting in Patrice's bedroom, lounging on the bed together, the smell of nail polish still strong in the air, their nails now as pink as the paint on the walls._

" _You're the best friend I've ever had," Patrice said. "Everyone else thinks I'm strange, you know, even my papa. When he's here, anyway. His duties at the base always keep him so busy. That's why I'm so glad that you moved here, and that you-"_

_The words turned to a gurgle when Natasha's arm wrapped tightly around the other little girl's throat._

A flicker.

" _You'll see, my love," Desmond told her, "we'll be safe in Belgium."_

_He was turned away from her as he spoke, pacing back and forth by the kitchen window, so he never saw the gun she took out from the drawer beside her._

" _They won't look for me there," he continued. "We'll find a house somewhere in the country, one with a garden for you, and-"_

_She cocked the pistol, aimed at the back of his head, and fired._

The world shifted yet again.

_They had admitted her to the psychiatric ward immediately, and the doctor had been sent for._

_It was almost too easy, really. A doctor who'd once served the Red Room should have been more cautious. He should have known that his former employer would never forgive and forget._

_The operatives, though…oh, they forgot plenty._

_Natasha grinned at that, and the aid standing nearby edged a little farther away from the hospital bed. Her grin got wider. He should be scared, because she would have to kill him too. It was her job, you know. That was what the voices told her and she had to listen to them because they knew best._

_She glanced idly at the orderly standing guard at the door. He was a big man. Probably thought she'd be easy to control if things got out of hand._

_He was wrong._

_The sound of footsteps out in the hallway announced the arrival of the doctor, and a moment later, he stepped into the room and picked up her chart. He gave it a cursory glance, obviously bored._

_A wild laugh bubbled up in her throat. He really should be more careful._

_After all, it was only paranoia if they weren't actually out to get you._

Natasha gasped as the blue suddenly vanished from her mind, and her eyes snapped open. Her head was throbbing, her chest was heaving, and the tremors wracking her muscles were making the chains around her wrists rattle.

She could feel Loki watching her, and she glared back, gritting her teeth against the spasms in her limbs. Her defiance only seemed to amuse him more. He grinned, rocking back on his heels and cocking his head to study her.

"So many memories, so little time," he mused. "What shall we see next? The Singapore mission? Quite the body count you had there. Or, perhaps the Spain mission? The reporter you killed had a family, you know - you killed them too."

Natasha's hands curled into fists, her stomach lurching in a way that was only partially due to the pounding in her skull.

"Oh, but that's not what  _you_  want to see, is it?" Loki pressed, his grin widening. "No…no, of course not."

He pivoted on his heel to look pointedly at Clint, and Natasha couldn't help but follow his gaze. Clint still hadn't moved, though the faint rise and fall of his chest seemed less strained than it had a few minutes ago.

Natasha looked back at Loki, only to find that he was standing closer than ever before, staring down at her, the light from his staff reflecting the manic gleam in his eyes. Then, suddenly, the world was swallowed up in blue once again, cold fire spreading through her veins and stealing her breath.

_The memory began with a riot of color…reds, yellows, blues, greens, purples, and oranges that blurred and shifted like the tide._

_Gradually, she become aware of a sound…music. A calliope. The smell of cotton candy and popcorn tickled her nose next, and she felt a warm breeze move the air around her, carrying noisy laughter and a few happy shouts._

_All at once, the memory solidified, and she found herself walking down a line of circus tents, slipping silently from one shadow to the next, keeping out of sight._

_Her target was making his way towards the carnival beyond, and just as he reached the outskirts, he stopped, watching the crowds. It was the opening she needed, and she darted forward, dropping the injector down her sleeve and into her palm with a flick of her wrist. She pressed it into the base of his spine and pushed the plunger down, emptying the contents. He grunted and stumbled away in surprise, pulling the injector from her grasp, but she wasn't particularly worried. The injection was already taking effect, and she'd be able to retrieve the device soon enough._

_She stepped back, watching as the drug did its work and her target doubled over, gasping. A moment later, he stumbled again, falling to his hands and knees in the dirt. It wasn't long before his arms gave out as well, and he landed on his side, chest heaving uselessly._

_She waited another few moments, and when she was confident that he was now unable to offer any resistance, she strode forward to pluck the injector from his back and slid it up her sleeve once again. Glassy blue gray-eyes found hers and she stared back coldly, then turned away and walked into the carnival beyond._

_The Polkovnik was expecting her._

The scene sped up suddenly, like a video set to fast-forward, but somehow Natasha understood it all, memories falling into place like puzzle pieces.

The first time she had seen Clint…

… _His eyes were a striking blue-gray, with small flecks of teal, green, and gold. For a long moment, he gazed up at the van's ceiling, unseeing, and then his eyes slipped closed once more…_

Their meeting in the Red Room…

… _The boy had jumped up to grip the small ledge of the vent in his cell, and pulled himself up so that he could peer at her through it. The cells were lit only dimly now, in allowance for the night, but she could make out his silhouette, and his eyes…familiar eyes she knew to be blue-gray, with small flecks of teal, green, and gold…_

The assignment the Polkovnik had given her…

" _The boy has proven…intransigent. We placed him with you in hopes that he would view you as a peer and seek out your company."_

The defiant words that had sown the seeds of her own rebellion…

" _What have we got to lose?" Clint insisted. "They'll take everything, no matter what we do. So why not fight?"_

The moment Clint had realized what would happen to him…

" _They can make you forget."_

" _Forget what?"_

" _Anything they choose."_

The last time she had seen him…

… _he was sitting in a corner, his back against the metal wall, his arms and legs akimbo as though he'd just been dropped there and hadn't bothered to move._

_He was staring straight ahead, his face entirely blank, his eyes hollow…_

Loki withdrew from her mind abruptly, and Natasha couldn't stop the choked sound that escaped her throat. The pain was white-hot and blinding, and involuntary tears filled her eyes, but she refused to let any of them fall, clenching her jaw and blinking them away furiously.

Loki stepped back, the glow of the scepter dimming faintly as he pulled it away from her chest.

"So," he prodded, "now you know. Was it everything you dreamed? Everything you imagined it would be?"

Natasha didn't answer. Her head was swimming, and not just from the pain.

As if reading her thoughts, Loki laughed.

"Oh, this is priceless. What did you expect? Some noble tale of defiance and victory against impossible odds? Hardly. A boy fought a battle that he could never hope to win, and you, well…you weren't directly involved in his capture, but you still played a part, didn't you? You covered their tracks by murdering his brother. Then you lied to him, continued serving as the Red Room's dutiful little agent, talking with him, gaining his trust…"

The words felt like a physical blow, and Natasha flinched, her gaze finding Clint's unmoving form once again.

She knew what Loki was doing. It was the same thing she had been trained to do, to twist the facts just enough to make them cut. And cut they did, because Loki might be embellishing her role, but his exaggerations did not change reality.

She had helped bring Clint to the Red Room. She had killed his brother. She had manipulated him.

"I wonder," Loki prodded, "if he knew, would he blame you? Would he hate you for it?"

Would he? Would he be right to? Natasha had done none of it maliciously…after all, a gun felt nothing when its owner pulled the trigger. It had no will of its own…it was simply a tool. And that was what she had been trained to be: a tool, a weapon in the Red Room's arsenal. But ultimately, hadn't she allowed herself to be used that way? She hadn't fought them. She had been, as Loki had said, their "dutiful little agent." And Clint had paid the price.

"Of course," Loki continued, shaking his head sadly, "we won't be able to ask Barton what he thinks about any of this, will we? Such a shame."

Natasha's gaze snapped back to Loki's face, her eyes blazing, not bothering to conceal the hatred she felt.

Loki - as ever - only seemed to find her reaction amusing. "The Polkovnik was right. You do have spirit, for all the good it does you now…for all the good it has ever done you. After all, what do you think drew the Polkovnik to you in the first place?"

That was a blow of a different kind and it caught Natasha off-guard. Maybe it shouldn't have. Loki knew more about her past than she did, unlocking the doors in her mind with a key that only he could use, and she felt like she had been stripped bare, every defense, every façade ripped away.

Loki moved in closer once again, his staff hovering above her chest, and he bent to whisper in her ear. "You've wondered, haven't you, how they found you? Who you  _really_  are?"

He didn't give Natasha a chance to answer as the world was submerged in blue once again.

_The air was cool in the studio. It wasn't as cold as the air outside, but the old radiator along the far wall couldn't quite beat back the winter temperatures. Natalia didn't really mind it, though - it was warm enough when she was dancing, and she was dancing now._

_Her legs were getting tired, but she kept them moving over the scuffed wooden floor anyway, counting the beats in her head just like her mama and her teacher had showed her. She moved slowly at first, doing the steps one at a time. First a chassé, then a demi plié, then a developpé with her back leg. She paused, stretching out her other leg too, her muscles shaking as she worked to keep them straight. She lifted her hands then, raising her arms into third position arabesque, trying to imagine bringing those motions altogether, leaping effortlessly through the air like her mama did. (Her mama was the best dancer Natalia had ever seen, better even than any of the dancers in the company that her papa had taken her to see last month.)_

_Natalia walked through the steps twice more before she backed up as far as she was able to in the corner of the studio that she was using. Then, squaring her shoulders, she did it all again, moving faster this time, ending with a leap, jumping as high as she could. She didn't need the mirror on the wall to tell her that the jump had been clumsy and she landed badly too. Unable to keep her balance she tipped backwards and landed on the hard wooden floor._

_Her mama's worried voice came from behind her as she was pushing herself up from the floor, brushing the dust from her leotard and tights._

" _Natalia!"_

_Her mother reached her a moment later._

" _Natalia," she said again, helping her stand, "are you alright? Are you hurt?"_

_Gentle hands started running over her arms and back, searching for injury._

(A part of Natasha's mind stuttered as the memory unfolded, because, whether it was Loki's doing or the Red Room's, as hard as she tried, she couldn't picture her mother's face.  _Turn around_ , she demanded - pleaded.  _Turn around_.)

_Her younger self didn't obey, though, keeping her eyes locked on the class of teenage girls on the other side of the studio. They stood at the bars, moving gracefully in sync as their teacher led them through a warm-up._

_Those gentle hands started to examine her legs as well._

" _I'm fine, Mama, really," she insisted, stepping out of her mother's reach. "I almost had it! I almost did a grand jeté! Did you see?"_

" _I did, zolotse_." (Something in Natasha's chest tightened at the endearment.)  _"But maybe," her mother added, "that's enough for today."_

" _No! I want to try again."_

" _Natalia-"_

" _Please, Mama!"_

" _You push yourself too hard, zolotse. You are already far ahead of the other girls your age. You must be patient."_

" _But I can do it now, I know I can."_

_There was a soft, affectionate laugh. "You are always so determined. Like your papa. Alright, once more, but be careful."_

" _I will, Mama."_

_Those gentle hands left her and Natalia backed up again, drawing a deep breath before she started forward a second time._

_Chassé, demi plié, and leap…_

_Her feet met the floor one after the other, and Natalia grinned. She'd done it! It wasn't as graceful or as high as her mama's jumps, but she'd done it just the same._

_The sound of soft applause made her turn, her eyes finding the chairs where a small group of observers sat to watch the dancers practice. She recognized some of them - they were family members or friends of the other girls in her own class - but many of them were strangers. It was one of those strangers who was clapping now. He was a gray-haired man with glasses, and he wore a suit, a white handkerchief tucked neatly into his front pocket…_

The blue disappeared like the tide rushing away from the shore, and Natasha gasped, drawing in air like she'd been denied it too long, her heart pounding behind her ribs. Her head felt as though the tip of Loki's staff had impaled her there, and the burning ache in her chest seemed to match it.

The Polkovnik.

He had been there. Watching her. For how long?

A woman's voice, a scream, and smoke. That was all she'd ever had left of her life outside of the Red Room, the life she might have had if it weren't for their interference.

Had it been her mother's voice she remembered…her mother's scream?

It was entirely possible. She knew how the Red Room operated. Her parents - and any other family members that might have gotten in the way - would have been quickly disposed of. She had assumed as much, on the rare occasions that she had allowed herself to consider such things. The thought had never been a pleasant one, but the pain it caused seemed…distant. Dull. How could she mourn for those whose existence was little more than vague notion in her mind? But now, with her mother's voice still ringing in her ears, and the memory of those gentle hands, the pain had sharpened, turned suddenly fierce with longing.

She had been loved, once. She wasn't like Clint, whose own family had been gone long before the Red Room had found him…whose brother had hated him enough to sell him to the highest bidder. She'd had a home…a happy one, judging by the warmth she'd heard in her mother's voice.

And the Red Room had destroyed it.

Anger surged up inside her, anger unlike anything she had ever known before, and she welcomed it, because for a moment, it was enough to push away the pain in her skull, enough to stop the buzzing in her brain as reclaimed memories and realizations vied for her attention.

Her eyes locked on Loki, who was watching her in return, watching what she assumed was the rapid sweep of emotions across her face. His arms were folded over his chest, the staff resting in the crook of his right elbow. The blue glow had dimmed slightly, but was still bright enough to compete with the fluorescent lighting mounted to the ceiling above them, and it cast strange, cerulean shadows along the wall.

Loki's mouth curved into the smirk that he seemed to wear perpetually. "The truth is a funny, thing, isn't it? We want it so desperately, yet when we have it, we find ourselves wishing that we didn't. What is it you mortals say? Ignorance is bliss?"

"You would know, wouldn't you?" Natasha ground out. "Thor told us about you. About how Odin lied to you. Do you wish that you'd never learned who you really are?"

The smirk vanished, and Loki's eyes narrowed.

Natasha's own lips turned up faintly. Perhaps it was foolish to provoke him, but at this point, she didn't care. The Polkovnik had made it clear that she was going to die, and Loki seemed to have every intention of drawing it out. If he would torture her regardless of what she did, then there was no point in holding back, especially when he had finally given her something that she could use against him.

"A pawn," she continued, deliberately echoing the way he had been mocking her. "That's what you were to them. A political pawn. A weapon to be used against the enemy."

Thor hadn't said that when he'd told them about his brother's origins, but she knew enough about political maneuvering to read between the lines. Even if Loki had come to be loved by Odin the way that Thor insisted, his "adoption" had not been an entirely altruistic act.

"I wonder if they ever actually cared for you?" she pressed. "After all, why would they?"

"Silence!" Loki hissed, and his hand came towards her suddenly, his flattened palm striking the slab she was chained to, landing in the space between her neck and shoulder, missing her head by inches.

The blow echoed through the room with a  _boom_ , and a quick glance to her right showed that it had been hard enough to leave a dent in the metal. The slab was still ringing, the vibrations slow to die away, and the throbbing in Natasha's skull started up once again, but she smiled through the pain, satisfied that her taunts had hit their mark.

Loki, it seemed, was no longer amused.

"You know nothing," he spat. "It was a relief, in a way, to learn of my true parentage. I am free from Asgard's pathetic ideals, from their sniveling devotion to honor. I can do as I please - and I will. If I cannot have Asgard, then I will have Earth. I will burn it to the ground and make my throne from the ashes, and the nations will fall at my feet!"

"You're insane."

"Am I? Truly?" Loki smiled again, but it was a dark, twisted thing this time. He leaned in closer until his nose was barely an inch from her own, his voice low, nearly a growl. "You think me mad? You don't know the meaning of the word. But you will. I'm going to take your mind apart one piece at a time, and when your essence is in tatters, I will heal you and start from the beginning. I will do that again, and again, and again, and after I'm through, you won't even be able to form the words to beg me for death."

Natasha felt her stomach clench at the picture he'd painted, but she raised her chin and stared back, refusing to look at the staff he held…at the way the blue glow had suddenly intensified, energy crackling around it like it had crackled around the cube in the underground bunker.

Loki's smirk returned, his grip tightening on the staff, and Natasha braced herself, her fingers curling as she waited for the world to be swallowed up in blue once again.

The staff was a hair's breath from her chest when a rapid burst of gunfire split the air. There was the distinct sound of bullets ricocheting off of armor, and Loki stiffened faintly, an annoyed look flitting across his features before he turned around to face the door.

Natasha followed his gaze and blinked in surprise. Captain Rogers was standing in the doorway, an assault rifle held in his hands, the stock pressed against his shoulder, the gun poised to fire again.

"The soldier," Loki murmured. "The man out of time."

"I'm not the one who's out of time," Rogers retorted, and pulled the trigger.

Loki leapt away, tucking into a roll and coming back to his feet before he raced across the room in a blur of motion. Rogers kept firing, adjusting his aim as Loki moved, the bullets leaving divots in the concrete floor and along the walls. He must have been using the last clip he had, however, because as soon as the rounds were spent, he tossed the gun aside and charged forward himself, his right fist swinging. It connected with Loki's jaw, making the Asgardian's head snap to the side, but he remained standing, apparently not fazed by the blow. He turned back to Rogers wearing that tell-tale grin, and with a flick of his wrist, the staff in his hands extended, lengthening until it was taller than he was. He swung that staff at Rogers' chest, and Rogers blocked it with his forearm. But, Loki turned the Captain's arm aside with ease, and swung again, hitting Rogers' square in the chest, sending him flying into the far wall. He hit with a  _clang_.

"Bet that hurt."

Natasha jumped, and she turned to find Stark stepping out from behind the slab. She grit her teeth, irritated that she hadn't been more aware of her surroundings, but the irritation faded as soon as she got a better look at the billionaire. He was breathing hard, a faint network of veins visible beneath his pale skin, and he was sweating, beads of perspiration rolling down his face, soaking into his shirt. Natasha wondered at the cause until her eyes were drawn to his chest, where a disconcerting hole was now visible, an empty metal socket where the arc reactor should have been.

Stark must have caught the direction of her gaze, because his lips quirked faintly as he set an assault rifle down on the floor, leaning it against the slab so that his hands were free. "Used the arc…to blow the door off my cell," he explained. "Got Rogers' door down too. Only good for one shot…but it worked. Trick was keeping the explosion…small enough…that it didn't…take me…or the base…out with it."

Natasha frowned, both at the explanation and the obvious difficulty Stark was having catching his breath. "I thought you needed that thing to stay alive."

"I do." Stark reached up to start examining the cuff around her right wrist, running a finger over the lock, but he kept talking as he worked. "There's an emergency…backup system. Learned…the hard way…that I should have one."

Natasha nodded - Coulson had allowed her to read the report detailing Obadiah Stane's betrayal.

"It's a…magnetic backup…system," Stark continued. "Not very…powerful, but it buys me…some extra time."

"How much?"

"Little over…thirty minutes."

Thirty minutes. That wasn't a very large window, and certainly not large enough to get Stark the sort of help he would need to survive.

Stark smiled grimly, as though reading her thoughts. "Beats…the alternative," he said simply.

Yes, Natasha agreed silently, it did.

Stark frowned and stepped around to her other side, giving the left cuff the same scrutiny he'd given the right. "Chances are…we're gonna have…company soon. Got into…the base's mainframe…found out where you were, turned off…the warning sirens…and took down…their comms…and cameras, but they're probably…on their way…here."

Stark gave the cuff another tug and grimaced.

"Rogers' cuffs…were easier. Electronic…lock. Just…shorted out…the system. Need…a key…for these. Don't suppose…you're the sort of woman that…wears…hairpins? Or…maybe, you've got…a paperclip stashed…somewhere…in that catsuit?"

"No."

"'Fraid…we'll have to wait…for Rogers then."

The wait seemed like it would be a long one. Rogers was back on his feet, aiming a kick for Loki's head, which the Asgardian dodged nimbly. He swung out with his staff once again, and it was Rogers' turn to duck, bending backwards to rest his weight on one hand while Loki's staff cut through the air above him.

An angry shout in Russian drew her attention back to the door, and she heard Stark spit a curse. "And here's…the company."

He snatched the automatic rifle up from the floor and took aim at the first soldier that came through.

Natasha wrenched at her chains, her hands curling into fists, but she could only watch as other soldiers entered the fray. The door was narrow, creating a bottleneck, and the room wasn't particularly large to begin with, but Stark wasn't a trained marksman, and the soldiers were quick enough that even as Stark took down one, and then another, a third man still managed to slip through.

Clearly, the Red Room had ordered that lethal force not be used against the billionaire, because the soldier didn't open fire, but instead, he ran straight at Stark, hitting him in a low tackle, dislodging his grip on the gun and bringing him to the floor.

Stark grunted, the breath knocked from his already struggling lungs, but he managed to bring up his elbow, striking the soldier across the face. The solider was stunned long enough that Stark was able to twist out of his grasp, scrambling to reach the rifle that had fallen a couple feet away. But the soldier was faster, bringing up a knee to hit Stark in the side, knocking him back to the floor.

It was the tell-tale sound of a gun cocking that drew Natasha's attention away from the fight.

She turned to find another soldier standing in front of the slab, his sidearm drawn and pointed at her chest. Apparently, the order barring lethal force did not extend to her.

The soldier smirked faintly, his finger tightening on the trigger.

The shot, when it came, made her flinch, but the expected pain didn't follow.

Instead, the solider grunted, his body jerking suddenly before he fell forward, landing face down on the cement.

Natasha's eyes darted to the figure standing behind him, and her breath caught in her throat.

"Clint."

He lowered the pistol he held, his hands trembling. His breathing was harsh and his eyes were wild, but when his gaze found hers, a fleeting look of recognition passed over his features. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he joined the soldier on the floor.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The endearment that Natasha's mother uses, "zolotse," or "Золотце," as it is written in Russian, means "my gold." It's roughly equivalent to something like "sweetheart," in English. :)
> 
> I am now caught up with posting chapters here on AO3, so the wait between this chapter the next will probably be quite a bit longer. I can't say for sure when the next chapter will be finished, but I am working on it, and Lord willing, the wait won't be too horrible.
> 
> Thanks again to all those who are reading, and especially to those who have left kudos and reviewed! Your feedback means so much.
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	25. An Uphill Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is has been the longest break between updates yet, and I'm so sorry to have kept everyone waiting! Life is just a busy as it was, if not more so, and this chapter argued with me like mad for months. On top of that, I've been working on my original novel which has taken up some of my usual writing time. But I hope that you'll think this next chapter was worth the wait.
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I'd be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

* * *

 

**Previously:**

Because it has been so long between updates, I wanted to offer a quick summary of the last few chapters.

Loki "healed" all of the damage that the Red Room did to Clint's mind, restoring all of his memories, and Clint collapsed as a result, his mind unable to take the strain. Loki then tormented Natasha, using his staff to restore bits and pieces of Natasha's memories as well, including how she and Clint met. She remembered killing Clint's brother, Barney, and remembered her conversations with Clint inside the Red Room. Loki also gave Natasha a brief glimpse of her own past, a moment when she was practicing ballet with her mother nearby, though Loki deliberately chose a memory where she did not look at her mother's face.

Loki intended to destroy Natasha's mind completely, but before he could begin, Tony and Steve arrived, having broken out of their own cells. In order to escape the cells, Tony blew up his arc reactor to take down the door. Tony told Natasha that after Obadiah Stane's betrayal, he created a magnetic back-up system that would help sustain him without the arc, but it only offered a 30 minute window, and already, by the time they reached Natasha, Tony was in fairly bad shape.

Of course, Tony and Steve's escape attracted a lot of attention, and shortly after Tony and Steve arrived to save Natasha, soldiers began flooding into the room. Natasha was restrained and unable to fight, so Tony held off the soldiers while Steve attacked Loki.

At this point, the Red Room still hoped to capture Steve and Tony alive, but both Natasha and Clint were on the "kill" list, and when Stark was fighting a solider who had tackled him, another solider saw the opportunity to take Natasha out. He was about to pull the trigger when someone shot him from behind, and as soon as he fell, Natasha realized it was Clint who had saved her. Clint met Natasha's eyes for a brief moment, and then collapsed again.

**Here is the very last piece of Chapter 24:**

_It was the tell-tale sound of a gun cocking that drew Natasha's attention away from the fight._

_She turned to find another soldier standing a few feet away, his sidearm drawn and pointed at her chest. Apparently, the order barring lethal force did not extend to her._

_The soldier smirked faintly, his finger tightening on the trigger._

_The shot, when it came, made her flinch, but the expected pain didn't follow._

_Instead, the solider grunted, his body jerking suddenly before he fell forward, landing face down on the cement._

_Natasha's eyes darted to the figure standing behind him, and her breath caught in her throat._

" _Clint."_

_He lowered the pistol he held, his hands trembling; his breathing was harsh and his eyes were wild, but when his gaze found hers, a fleeting look of recognition passed over his features. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he joined the soldier on the floor._

* * *

** Chapter 25 **

Natasha felt an unwelcome sense of déjà vu as she watched Clint fall, and for a fleeting instant, she wondered if this time he wouldn't be getting back up. But Clint was only still for a moment, and then he groaned lowly, curling in on himself, his hands reaching up to clutch at his head. His breathing was fast, his chest heaving raggedly, but the steady motion was a comforting sight nonetheless.

She allowed her gaze to linger there for a few seconds, but knowing that there was nothing she could do for him now, her eyes found Stark once again. The solider he was facing was standing above him, prepared to bring his foot down on Stark's abdomen, but Stark rolled away just in time, and then he twisted, bringing up his own legs and hitting the soldier behind the knees. The soldier landed hard on the floor, and an instant later, Stark reached the automatic rifle he'd dropped. He scooped up the weapon and scrambled back to his feet, then struck the solider over the head with the butt of the gun. When the man went limp, Stark brought the rifle to bear again, taking aim at the other soldiers now surging into the room.

There was a low clank, the distinct sound of a body hitting metal, and Natasha turned to see Rogers still locked in combat with Loki. It was the Asgardian who had hit the wall this time, and Rogers was trying to press his advantage, taking one swing after another, but as quick as he was, Loki was just a fraction faster, and it showed. He blocked the first three blows with his staff and the fourth with the gauntlet at his wrist, then he spun away, swinging his staff in a short arc that struck Rogers across the back. The force of the blow was enough to send Rogers through the air for several feet.

Stark must have seen it out of the corner of his eye, because he turned from the door and fired a round of bullets at Loki. The Asgardian used his staff to deflect them, lead striking the alien metal in a shower of gold sparks.

Rogers used the distraction to get back on his feet and he charged again, hitting Loki in a low tackle from behind, much like the one the guard had used on Stark only moments before. Loki landed facedown with a grunt, but when Rogers aimed a blow at his head, Loki twisted out of the way, and Rogers's fist struck the cement instead, a faint spider web of cracks appearing in the floor as a result. Loki was on his feet in instant, and Rogers jumped up with him, leaping into the air, bringing his right leg up in a spinning kick that struck Loki across the jaw. Loki stumbled back and Rogers brought his leg up once more, hitting him square in the chest with his boot. Loki fell again, landing on his back this time. He started to raise his staff, but Rogers got there first, bringing his foot down on the weapon, just below the gem that glowed an electric blue, trapping it against the floor. His right hand found Loki's throat.

Given what Natasha had seen of Loki's abilities so far, the Asgardian was undoubtedly strong enough to throw him off, but for the moment, he stayed where he was. Instead, he smirked up at Rogers, who was breathing hard and had a trickle of blood running down his face from a gash on his temple.

"You cannot win," Loki declared.

Rogers eyes narrowed, his hand tightening fractionally around Loki's throat. "We'll see."

Despite the unspoken threat, Loki laughed.

"Oh, yes, we will."

An instant later, Rogers stumbled, nearly falling over, because where Loki had been there was nothing. The Captain's eyes darted around the room, searching, and Natasha's gaze followed his, but Loki was gone, as though he'd never been there in the first place.

There was no time to wonder how such as thing was possible.

A burst of gunfire drew Natasha's attention to Stark. A small group of soldiers had made it through the narrow doorway, and other soldiers were surging into the room to join them. Rogers ran forward to help the billionaire, stopping only to pick up the weapon of one of the men Stark had taken out earlier. The noise from their combined fire drowned out nearly every other sound in the small space, but between them, Stark and Rogers stopped the rushing tide of soldiers, at least temporarily. Natasha wasn't foolish enough to think that the respite would continue for long, but it was welcome just the same.

Rogers tossed his spent gun aside and jogged towards her, reaching for the cuffs at her wrists. With a sharp tug, the metal gave way under his fingers, and she pulled her arms free. Her ankles were released a moment later, and she pushed past Rogers and Stark without a word, already headed for Clint. She was dimly aware that both men followed behind her, but she ignored them.

Clint was still laying where he'd fallen, curled in a fetal position, his fingers pressing into his scalp, his eyes squeezed shut. The gun he'd used to save her lay a few feet away, dropped when he'd fallen.

"Clint."

Her voice was hoarse, and it surprised her. But it was an effort to force his name past the lump in her throat.

Clint didn't react.

"Hey, what…happened…to him?"

Stark's blunt question might have bothered her more if he hadn't needed to pause twice in the middle of it to catch his breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see how pale Stark looked, the hole in his chest just as disconcerting as it had been before.

"Loki said he healed him," she answered simply. "He restored his memories. All of them."

There was a moment of uneasy silence.

"Is that even possible?" Rogers asked at last.

"He made me remember things."

Her voice didn't waver, but it was dull, flat in a way that might have been just as telling, because she could feel Rogers' concerned gaze on her back.

She reached out to grasp Clint's shoulder, and his muscles trembled beneath her hand.

"Clint?" she tried again.

Still there was nothing, no sign that Clint had heard her.

Maybe he hadn't.

" _I really did heal him. All that damage, all the alterations the Red Room made…gone in the blink of an eye, and his memories returned…every single one."_

She tried to imagine what that would be like. The few memories that Loki had restored to her had left her reeling, and the pain in her skull was sharp and unrelenting. Magnify that a thousand fold…

" _The human mind is so very fragile…I'm afraid it simply couldn't take the strain."_

Time might very well prove that Loki was right, Natasha knew. But Clint had saved her, and she refused to believe that it had been a fluke. His mind couldn't be broken, not completely. He was still in there. Somewhere.

She gripped Clint's shoulder a little more firmly and shook it. " _Clint_."

If she hadn't been watching him so closely, she might have missed it - the faint intake of breath, the barely audible groan.

She shook him again. "Come on, Clint. Open your eyes."

His eyelids fluttered, and then finally, she saw the barest hint of blue-gray. He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes cloudy and unfocused, but slowly, his gaze cleared a little and he blinked.

"N'tas'a?"

Her name was barely understandable, but it was quite possibly the best sound she had ever heard.

"Yes."

"Wha…" His gaze left her face to drift around the room, uncomprehending. "Где я?  _(_ _Where I am?)_ I don't… Кто?  _(_ _Who?)_ Как? _(_ _How?)_ "

The jumbled mix of Russian and English trailed off into unintelligible mumbling, and he groaned, his fingers digging into his scalp once more. She gave him another shake, harder this time, forcing him to look at her again.

"Clint, we have to go. More soldiers are coming. Do you understand?"

There was a long pause and then he gave a small jerk of his head that she assumed was meant to be a nod. She pulled his hands away from his scalp and stood, tugging him up with her. He swayed, immediately listing to one side, but Rogers reached out to help steady him.

Clint didn't react to the touch at all - Natasha wondered if he even knew that the two other men were there.

"So, where to?" Rogers asked, looking at Stark.

"I think…we should head…to the armory next," the billionaire answered, the words still caught between ragged breaths. "According to the…base's mainframe, the weapons they…confiscated…from us…should be there. Even if…they're not, we'll probably…be able…to find something…we can use. 'Sides…the mainframe said…Banner and Thor are in a…maximum security wing. We'll need something better than…a few…stolen guns…if we're planning to get 'em…outta there."

Natasha frowned. "The armory is an obvious target. It will be guarded."

"You have…a better idea?" Stark asked.

She thought for a moment then shook her head. "No," she admitted.

Rogers didn't look particularly happy either, but he nodded. "Alright, then, armory it is. We'll free Dr. Banner and Thor, and then we go after Loki."

Their plans made, they did a quick search of the room, taking guns and extra ammunition from the fallen guards. Rogers and Stark both chose assault rifles like the ones they'd carried earlier, and Natasha picked up a couple of Makarov pistols. The grips felt bulky in her hands compared to her Glocks, but they were obviously well-maintained, and the magazines were full. Knowing that she would need to have her hands free, she found a couple of thigh holsters as well, and she studied Clint as she tightened the holsters around her legs.

He was already wearing a holster of his own, but it was empty, and he hadn't moved to fill it. He simply stood there, swaying a little, staring at a point on the floor, his brow furrowed, his eyes glassy. Making a quick decision, Natasha bent down to pick up the handgun Clint had dropped. She released the magazine and quickly checked the number of rounds it had left, then slid the magazine back into place and reached for Clint's hands, carefully wrapping them around the gun. Clint still didn't respond, but his grip adjusted automatically, his fingers moving to rest lightly on the trigger.

She turned around to find Rogers's gaze shifting between her and the gun Clint now held, and though he didn't say a word, it was easy enough to guess that he was questioning the wisdom of arming a man who was barely coherent.

She didn't particularly care what Rogers thought - Clint wasn't going anywhere without a weapon.

Thankfully, Rogers seemed to know when to pick his battles, because a moment later, he issued the order for them to move out. Stark rolled his eyes at the command, but he obeyed nonetheless, following behind Rogers while she and Clint took their six.

The hallway immediately outside of the interrogation room remained empty, and they made good time down the corridor. Clint was walking with all the coordination of a drunk, and twice she had to call his name and remind him to keep going, but at least he was moving under his own power, and so far, he was managing to keep up.

They slowed as they reached the end of the passageway, and Rogers pressed his back against the nearest wall then peered around the corner.

A volley of bullets answered him.

Apparently, the Red Room no longer felt that non-lethal force would be effective enough.

Rogers threw himself back, pressing himself even more firmly against wall behind him, and Stark made a quick dive for safety next to the Captain. Natasha followed, grabbing Clint's arm and pulling him beside her. They weren't at risk for a direct hit - the bullets were striking the wall opposite the one where they stood - but ricochets were a real threat, as evidenced by the gouges now visible in the concrete floor.

A dent suddenly appeared in the metal of the wall just above Stark's left shoulder, and he spat a startled curse, ducking down a little more. "What…I wouldn't give…for some armor…right now!"

"Good idea," Rogers said.

Turning so that he faced the wall, Rogers set down the assault rifle he carried, then pulled back his right arm and struck the metal with his elbow. The metal panel shrieked in protest as it caved in on itself and the edges were thrust upwards, and Rogers quickly reached for those edges, prying them up until the metal panel pulled away from the wall. He was left with a warped, rectangular metal sheet that was roughly a foot wide and two feet long. He turned the metal on end, so that the greater length would protect his head and torso, and then he bent his knees, placing as much of his body behind the make-shift shield as he could.

"Cover me if you can," he said simply.

After that he was running, charging out into the gunfire.

The soldiers clearly weren't expecting a direct attack, because frantic shouts soon joined the noise of the gunfire. An instant later, one of the soldiers was sent flying through the air, striking the bullet-ridden metal wall and landing in a heap on the cement.

Stark seemed to see that as his cue, taking up position at the corner and bringing up the assault rifle he held, firing off a round of his own.

Natasha moved behind him to look around the corner as well, making a quick assessment of the fight before she glanced back at Clint. His handgun was now holstered at his hip, but otherwise, he was standing where she had left him, leaning against the wall, staring at the floor like he had earlier.

"Clint."

He jumped a little at the sound of his name, but his eyes slowly rose to meet hers.

"Stay here with Stark," she told him.

He frowned faintly, and a for a moment, she wondered if he was going to argue, but then he just nodded and his gaze drifted back to the floor.

Something twisted inside Natasha's chest, but she pushed it aside and turned around, reaching for the Makarovs at her sides, drawing them as she broke into a sprint. She dropped down as soon as she rounded the corner, sliding across the cement like a baseball player sliding into home plate, firing as she went. Three soldiers dropped before any of the others realized she was there.

Finally, one of them spun around, shooting at her in return, but she tucked into a summersault, rolling forward and landing in a crouch, then she swept her right leg out, knocking the soldier off his feet. An elbow to his throat took him out of the fight permanently.

Another soldier had already stepped up to take his place, but he had gotten no further than raising his gun when she re-holstered her Makarovs and did a handspring onto his shoulders, using the combination of her momentum and her body weight to throw him over her head. He struck the solider behind him, taking the other man to the floor, and Natasha landed in a crouch, drawing her Makarovs again and firing before either solider could get back up.

She stood, looking down the corridor, and saw Rogers was using the metal sheet like a battering ram now, running straight through the remaining soldiers, leaving them limp and unmoving in his wake. There were only a few who were still on their feet, and she guessed that there couldn't have been more than around twenty men to begin with. There were undoubtedly many more waiting for them elsewhere, but this particular corridor was too small to accommodate a larger force.

She started for Rogers, intending to help him dispatch those who were left, but a shout from Stark brought her up short. She turned and immediately broke into a run when she saw that the solider Rogers had thrown against the wall had gotten to his feet. Stark had his gun raised, but his physical condition was obviously worsening - his hands shook as he pulled the trigger and his shot went wide.

She was too far down the hallway to stop what happened next.

The soldier gave Stark no time to shoot again, but slammed straight into him. Stark hit the wall behind him and crumpled the floor a moment later, clearly stunned. The solider ripped the assault rifle from his hands as he fell, and Natasha expected him to turn the gun on Stark, but he must have seen an opportunity to bring the billionaire in alive because he brought the gun up, away from Stark. Instead, he pointed the rifle down the corridor where there could only be one other target - Clint.

For an instant, everything seemed to slow down, even as Natasha forced another burst of speed from her muscles.

She rounded the corner just as the solder's finger tightened on the trigger. Clint was still standing where she'd left him, just a short distance from where Stark had been, and she wouldn't reach the soldier in time to keep him from firing. The bullet would hit Clint point-blank.

A shout of denial lodged itself in her throat, her heart pounding behind her ribs, and then, suddenly, Clint was moving, leaping at the soldier, using his left forearm to knock the gun aside, and bringing the palm of his right hand up under the soldier's chin, forcing his head back with an audible snap.

The soldier collapsed, the rifle clattering to the concrete next to him.

Natasha stopped running, her steps slowing as her momentum carried her to Clint's side.

He wasn't moving any more, just standing there again, staring down at his hands like he wasn't quite sure that they belonged to him.

She had just reached out to lay a hand on Clint's arm when the sound of heavy boots hitting the floor made her spin around and fall automatically into an attack stance. She relaxed when she saw it was Rogers. In his right hand, he still held the metal panel he'd pried from the wall, and it was noticeably more warped now, with a few deeper indentations that had clearly been caused by bullets, but the Captain himself seemed to be uninjured.

His gaze darted quickly around the corridor, and then he was bending down to help Stark who was now struggling to get back up to his feet.

"You alright?" Rogers asked, frowning when it became obvious that he was taking most of the billionaire's weight.

"Oh…I'm just…peachy…can't you…tell?" Stark retorted breathlessly. He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head as though trying to get the fog to clear. His right hand rose to rub at his chest, but then he straightened up and pushed the Captain's hand away. "Doesn't…matter…how…I am. We've gotta…keep…moving."

Rogers looked like he wanted to argue, but Stark was right - there just wasn't any time to wait for him. Giving Stark one last look, Rogers bent down to pick up the assault riffles that now lay on the concrete at their feet - both the gun that the solider had taken from Stark, and the assault rifle he'd left behind earlier. He gave Stark his gun back, then hefted his own rifle once more, slinging the strap over his right shoulder before adjusting his grip on his makeshift-shield that he held in his left hand.

Stark started doing a quick inspection of his gun, obviously wanting to make sure it hadn't been damaged in the fight, and knowing that they would be setting out again soon, Natasha's gaze darted back to Clint. His hands had fallen back down to his sides, and they clenched and unclenched every few moments, his fingers almost twitching as they curled into his palms. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes cloudy once more, but just like there wasn't time for Stark, there wasn't time for Clint either, as much as Natasha wished there was.

They couldn't wait.

"Clint," she said lowly.

Natasha couldn't deny the relief she felt when he looked back at her.

"We need to hurry."

He didn't answer, but when Rogers and Stark started down the corridor again, Clint fell into step with her automatically. Rogers, she noticed, was keeping less distance between himself and Stark than he had before, clearly keeping an eye on the billionaire. If Stark was irritated by the Captain's concern, he couldn't muster the energy to complain about it. He did, however, stop them as they reached the end of the hallway where the last group of fallen soldiers lay.

"Hang on…a second," Stark said, bending down.

He dug through the field vest the soldier was wearing, checking the various pockets. He smirked suddenly as he reached one of the larger pouches. "Thought…so."

He stood up, something in his palm, and when he held out his hand, she saw the reason for his smirk.

A grenade.

Stark gave it to Rogers who studied it with a faint frown. "Doesn't look that different from the ones I remember."

"It's not, really. It's an…RGN…the Soviet…standard. Biggest…difference…is the time delay…fuse."

"Blast range?" Rogers asked.

"Lethal radius is around 13 to 33 feet," Natasha answered immediately.

Stark turned to stare at her for a moment, then shook his head. "Right. Shoulda…figured…you'd know that." He glanced at the fallen soldier again. "Wanna bet…this guy…wasn't the only one…packing…a little extra…fire power?"

He wasn't. A quick search of the nearest bodies turned up two more fragmentation grenades, and in the end, they stripped one of the fallen soldiers of his vest and gave it to Stark, agreeing that he would be the one to carry the ordnance. It would allow all of them to keep their hands free, and hopefully, it would offer Stark a little more protection during the fight as well.

The hallways of the Red Room were empty as they left the basement and reached the ground floor of the training center, but the blatant lack of opposition was hardly comforting. If the Red Room wasn't guarding these corridors, then that meant that they had chosen to deploy the majority of their troops elsewhere…in all likelihood, protecting high value targets like the armory.

The question was, just how many men would they be facing?

Natasha frowned as she called up the Red Room's layout in her mind. She remembered the armory clearly - it was here, on the ground floor, within easy reach of the officers and soldiers who spent the majority of their time inside the building. (It had never escaped her notice, however, that it could be found on the end of the building opposite the trainees' barracks, close enough so that they could also be easily armed, but far enough away that the Red Room's leadership would be guaranteed valuable minutes should those same trainees ever attempt to rebel and arm  _themselves_.)

Moreover, the armory was positioned at the center of a long hallway so that anyone attempting to reach it would have no available cover to protect them from incoming fire. That hallway was twice the width of the other corridors, meaning that the Red Room would have far more room to assemble their troops when needed.

When they arrived at the end of the hallway where the armory was located, it was immediately obvious that the Red Room was using this fact to their full advantage, and Natasha bit back the Russian curse that sat on the tip of her tongue. There were at least two platoons stationed there, perhaps sixty men total. They had been spread carefully along the corridor, giving each man enough room to maneuver, while still guaranteeing that she and the others would need to fight for every inch of progress they made.

"Looks like they're not gonna make this easy," Rogers muttered as he peered around the corner, taking in the scene. He turned around to face them once more, his gaze moving between her and Stark. He glanced at Clint too, but Natasha knew without looking that Clint's blank stare had returned. She could feel his unnatural stillness beside her, and every once in a while, she could hear him mumbling to himself, though she couldn't make out the words.

"What do you think?" Rogers asked. "Any way to go around?"

"No," Natasha answered. "This is the only access point for the armory."

"What about the air ducts?"

Natasha's eyebrows rose faintly. "This is a prison, Captain. A very elaborate prison, filled with highly trained inmates. Do you really think they would overlook such an obvious security flaw?"

"They didn't," Stark interjected. "I checked the…HVAC system…while I…was digging around…in…the mainframe. They managed…to make the ducts…too small…for anybody…to crawl through…without compromising…the system's…efficiency. Not a bad…piece of…engineering…really."

Rogers sighed, his expression resigned. "Hard way it is, then." He paused, obviously considering their options. "Can we split up? Take them from both sides?"

"I wouldn't chance it," Natasha answered. "If we tip them off while getting into position, we lose the element of surprise."

"Don't know…how long…we'll be able…to surprise them, either," Stark pointed out. "I took down…the cameras, but…you know…they've gotta be…working…on getting their…systems back up, and I'm betting…the cameras and comms…will be top priority…so they can track our movements. Better to take 'em on…when they won't see…us coming."

Rogers nodded in agreement, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. "How long is the time delay fuse on those grenades?"

"Impact fuse…triggers after 1 to 1.8 seconds," Stark answered. "If it hasn't…hit anything…time delay fuse detonates…after 3.5 to 4 seconds."

"Alright. How long would you say this corridor is?"

The billionaire crept forward to get a better view of the corridor, and tilted his head in contemplation. "Ninety-five…maybe…a hundred feet."

"That's what I thought." Rogers set his make-shift shield down against the nearby wall and held out a hand. "Give me a grenade."

Stark opened one of the pockets of his scavenged field vest and obliged the Captain. Rogers stared at the grenade in his palm for a moment, his expression grim, but when he looked up again, his eyes were filled with resolve.

"I'll throw the grenade into the wall on the other end of the corridor. That should thin out their numbers. Whoever is left…the explosion should drive them towards us. Any objections?"

Stark shrugged. "Works…for me. Romanoff?"

"Sounds like our best bet," she agreed.

Rogers nodded in acknowledgement, then glanced at Clint again. "Is he gonna be able to help?"

Natasha followed the Captain's gaze.

Clint still hadn't moved from her side, and he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that they were discussing him now, but so far, in every fight he'd been a part of, he'd managed to respond. Maybe it was simply the result of Red Room-ingrained instinct, a trained reflex so strong that not even Loki's meddling could stifle it. Or maybe, somehow, a part of Clint's mind was still able to grasp the situation they were in, and he  _wanted_  to fight…understood that he needed to. She hoped it was the second - that he was fighting by choice and not just because his body knew what to do even if his mind didn't.

"He'll be fine," Natasha told the Captain at last.

It wasn't quite an answer to the question Rogers had asked, but the truth was, she didn't have an answer to give him. Would Clint be able to help? She had no idea. But he would be fine. She'd make sure of it, whether Clint managed to fight or not.

Rogers seemed to hear what she wasn't saying, and he nodded again in silent acceptance.

Then, drawing a deep breath, he turned towards the corridor once more, the grenade clutched in his right hand as he prepared to throw it.

"Ready?" he asked.

They were, and Rogers darted out into the open, pulled the pin from the grenade, and threw it with all of his considerable strength.

There was a frantic shout of "граната!"  _Grenade!_

An instant later, the explosion ripped through the corridor.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll do everything I can to make sure that the wait for the next chapter is much shorter, though please know that life really is very busy for me right now, and hard to predict. But I promise that I will do my best.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


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